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134. WOIJBI.E KEK- 


a« CIK.’X rs. 





A NOVEL. 


By MISS M. E. BRADDON, 


t7 TO 27 VaNdeW/ter 5 t 
E WTo^K;;* 




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361 The Red Rover, A Tale of the 

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362 The Bride of Lammermoor. 

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364 Castle Dangerous. By Sir Wal- 

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365 George Christy; or. The Fort- 

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376 The Crime of Christmas-Day. 

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383 Introduced to Society. By Ham- 

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WYLLARD’S WEIRD. 


A 2^0 VBL. 


By MISS M; E; BRADDON. 

u 

/ n 

* 

— — 




NEW YORK: 

GEORGE MUNRO, PUBLISHER, 

17 TO 27 Vandicwateu Street. 


WYLLARD’S WEIRD 


CHAPTER 1. 

IN A CORNISH VALLEY. 

There are some travelers who think when they cross the Tamar, 
over that fairy bridge of Bruners, hung high in air, between the 
blue of the river and the blue of the sky, that they have left Eng- 
land behind them on the eastern shore— that they have entered "H 
new country— a new world almost. This land of quiet woods and 
lovely valleys, or bold brown hills, barren, solitary; these wild com- 
mons and large moorlands of Cornwall seem to stand apart, as they 
did in the days gone by, when this province was verily a kingdom, 
complete in itself, and owning nu-sovereignty but its own. 

It is a beautiful region which the traveler sees, perchance tor the 
first time, as the train skims athwart the quaint little water-side 
village of Saltash, and pierces the rich depths of the woodland — 
various, enchanting. [Now the Hue seems strung like a thread ot 
iron in mid-air above a deep gorge, now winds sinuous as a snake 
through a labyrinth of hills. A beautiful bit ot road this between 
Plymouth and Bodmin Road at all times; but, perhaps, loveliest in 
the still evening hour, ^Yhen the summer sunset steeps the land in 
golden light, while the soft summer wind scarcely stirs the wood- 
land. 

In the mellow light ot a July eventide the express from Padding- 
ton swept with slackened speed around the curve of a viaduct bo- 
tween Saltash and Bodmin Road — a heavy wooden structure, span- 
ning a vale of wild and Alpine beauty. A lovely little bit ot scenery 
upon which the stranger is apt to look with some touch ot fear 
mingled in the cup ot his delight; but to the dweller in the district, 
familiar with evfery yard of the journey, the transit is as nothing. 
He is carried through the air serenely as he smokes his cigar and 
reads his paper, and the notion ot peril never occurs to hiui. 

One man, sitting by the window of a third-class carriage, near the 
end of the train, looked out at the familiar scene dreamily to-night. 
He was an elflerly, gra 5 ^-headed man, a parish doctor, hard-worked 
and poorly paid, but he had a keen eye tor the beautiful in nature, 
dead or living, and familiar as this spot was to his eye, it always 
impressed him. He sat with his face to the engine, puffing lazily 
at bis little black brierwood, and gazing at the landscape, in that not 
impleasant condition of bodily and mental- fatigue, when the mind 


10 wyllard’s weird. 

seems half asleep, and the external world is little more than a 
dream-picture. 

The train was not a long one, a good many of the London car- 
riages having been left behind at Plymouth. Dr. Menheniot had 
all the carriages full in view as they swept round the curve. There 
was a head here and there by a window, but the train seemed 
sparsely occupied. They were nearing a bridge which crossed a 
ravine of wildest beauty. That narrow thread" of water trickling 
over its rocky bed in the depth of the gorge was in winter a rushing 
torrent. The bridge was under repair, and the wooden palisade 
had been removed in the progress of the work. The actual danger 
was in no wise increased by the absence of this barrier, which would 
have smashed and crumbled like match-wood before the weight of 
the train had the engine run off the rails; but there was a seeming 
insecurity to the eye of the traveler as he looked into the gu]f be- 
low; and Dr. Menheniot gave an involuntary shudder. Another 
moment and the engine came on the bridge. Menheniot started up 
with a half articulate exclamation: 

“-What in God's name — ?’’ he began. 

He opened the carriage door — seemed as if he were going to 
clamber out-— to try and make his way along the footboard to a 
djstant carriage, outside which a girl was Standing, holding on to the 
brass hand-rail at the side of the door. She had that instant stepped 
out, or had been thrust out, Menheniot knew not which. He had 
seen nothing till he saw her standing there— a slender figure in a 
light-colored gown, light, thin draperies fluttering in the wind — 
standing there hanging between life and death, a creature to be res- 
cued somehow, were it at the hazard of a man’s life. 

Before he could put himself in peril, the change of rescue was 
over. A wild shriek rang through the wood — a fluttering form 
went whirling down the ravine, flashing white athwart the sunlit 
scenery, and lay half buried amidst a tangle of fern and wild flowers 
at the bottom of the gorge. 

Twenty or thirty heads were thrust out of the windows. The 
train, which to Dr. Menheniot’s eye just now had seemed almost 
empty, was now alive with people. The engine slackened speed, 
and stopped at about a hundred yards from the scene of the catas- 
trophe. A dozen men of different ages and qualities leaped out of 
the train, and clambered down the embankment, among others 
Julian AVyllard, the rich banker, and lord of the manor of Pen- 
morval, a man of middle age, in spotless broadcloth, a tall, stately 
figure, a man of mark in this part of the country, before whom all 
gave way, except little Dr. Menheniot, who hurried on ahead, in- 
tent upoh affording professional help, if such help could avail. 

Mr. Wyllard had been an athlete in his boyhood and youth. He 
walked down the steep, rugged hill-side more easily than many 
men walk down Regent Street. When they got to the bottom of 
the embankment every pne fell back involuntarily, as it were, and 
allowed Mr. Wyllard to head the procession. They went as fast as 
it was possible to go ov^r that broken ground, trampling down the 
terns and flowers, wild strawberries, strange many-hued filngi, as 
they went, evefy lip breathless, every e^^e strained toward that one 
spot in the hollow. yonder where the doctor was hastening. 


wyllakd’s weird. 11 

“ No use, 1 fear,’' said Julian Wyllard, as if answ^ering the com- 
mon thought. The poor creature must be quite dea’d.'" 

“ AVhat, in mercy’s name, mj^de her do it?” speculated a burly 
farmer. “ Was she frightened, do you think, by some ruffian in 
the train, or did she want to make away with herself?” 

The little cluster of passengers looked at one another curiously, 
as if seeking among those rustic countenances for the face of a 
, scoundrel capable of assailing ifnprolected innocence. But if guilt 
were present in that assembly, there was no outward indication of 
the diabolical element. A.lmost every one there was known to the rest ; 
small farmers, a squire or two, the elderly lawyer from Camelford, 
the curate of Wadebridge, a magistrate of Bodmin — a corn-chandler 
and respectable inhabitant of the same town. Assuredly not among 
these would one look for that lower order of man who is viler in 
his degraded manhood than the wild beasts of the jungle. 

There might be other passengers lurking in the train, among 
those loquacious women up yonder, who were all putting their 
heads out of windows, straining their necks to get their share in 
the pity and the terror of the tragedy down below. 

Mr. Wyllard and his companions found little Dr. Menheniot on his 
knees beside the piteous figure lying in a heap, like a limp rag, 
among terns and ground ivy. 

He had lifted the poor bruised head upon his arm, and he \vas 
looking down at the dead face, the ojien eyes gazing in the set stare 
of a great horror — horror at the wretch who flung her down, or at 
the awful gulf of death self-sought? Who could tell? Those 
blood-bedabbled lips were mute for evermore, unless the dead 
could be conjured into speech. 

“ Is she quite gone?” asked Julian Wyllard, his grave compas- 
sionate countenance calm, amidst the agitation of the little crowd. 

That spectacle of sudden violent death was no new thing to his 
eyes. He had lived in Paris during the siege and the Commune, 
had seen the corpses laid out in long rows in the cemeteries, and 
lying in bloody heaps in the streets. 

“ Quite dead, and a blessed thing, too,” answered the doctor. 
“ 1 don’t believe she has a whole bone in her body. She could only 
have lingered a little while to suffer agonies. Her neck is broken. 
Poor little thing! She is quite a young creature, and must have 
been pretty.” 

Yes, it was a pretty little face, even in the pallor of death. A 
small retrousse nose; large dark eyes, with long black lashes; pout- 
ing, childish lips; a delicately-moulded figure, neatly dressed in dark 
biue cotton, a linen collar cut low in the front, and showing a good 
deal of the long white throat, line^ cuffs, long thread gloves, and 
little stuff boots. 

“ She looks like a furriner,” said Mr: Nicholls, the burly farmer 
who had speculated as to the cause of her death. 

” Hadn’t somebody better examine her pockets for any papers 
which may identify her?” said a voice befiind Mr. Wyllard. 

It was the voice of a young man whc^ had been the last to leave 
the train. He had followed thq rest at a few paces’ distance, and 
had only just arrived to look at the dead girl over Mr. Wyllard’s 
shoulder. 


12 > > avtllard’s weird. 

“ You here. Both well?” exclaimed the banker, turning quickly. 

‘‘ Yes, 1 have been in Plymouth all day, and thought I’d get back 
by your train,” answered Bothwell Grahame, easily. “Don’t you 
think they ought to examine her4pockets?” 

“ Certainly; but it is a question as to whether it should be done 
now or late>-,’’ssaid Wyllard. “ She was evidently traveling alone, 
poor creature, Itnd she must have been in a compartment by herself, 
since nobody .g^ems to knowT^ny tiling about her. The chief thing 
to be done is to ge t her ca,rrfcd on to Bodmin Road, where there 
must be an inquest.” 

Everybod}^ agreed that this was the voice of wisdom. Dr. ]Vlen> 
heniot turned out the pocket of the neat cotton gown. There was 
nothing but a handkerchief, a little bunch of keys, and a second- 
class railway ticket for Plymouth, no card-case or purse, or even 
an old letter to offer a clew to the dead girl’s personality. This 
done, the doctor arranged the poor dislocated form decently, and two 
sturdy men lifted it from the gieenery and carried it gently up the 
embankment to the train, where that unconscious clay was laid on 
the seat of an empty second-class compartment. 

“ It is the very carriage she was in,” said Bothwell, pointing to a 
torn strip of gray alpaca hanging on the metal handle. “ Iler 
gown must have caught on the handle as she fell, and this shred 
was left behind.” 

Bothwell gave the bit of alpaca to Dr. Menheniot. 

“You can show that to the coroner,” he said. “ Of course, you 
will be a witness.” 

“ About the only one necessary, 1 should think,” said the doctor ; 
“ 1 saw her fall.” 

“ Did you?” exclaimed Mr. Wyllard. “ That’s lucky; and what 
was your impression as to the manner of her tall? Whether she 
deliberately threw herself out, or whether she was thrown out by a 
villain?” 

This was asked in a lowered voice, since the murderer, if the 
deed were murder, might be within hearing. 

“Upon my soul, 1 can not tell,” protested Menheniot, with a 
troubled dook. “ The whole thing was so rapid. It passed like a 
dash. I was smoking, tired, in a dozy condition altogether, and 
this horrible thing seemed like a dream. 1 saw no other head at the 
carriage window'. 1 saw nothing but that girl standing on the foot- 
board as the train came on to the bridge, and then, all in a rnoment, 
1 saw her w.hirling down into the gorge, like a feather blown out of 
a window. If it was suicide, she ceitainly hesitated, for when 1 
first saw her she was standing on the foot-board holding the hand- 
rail by the side of the door. She did not leap out of the train with 
one desperate, deliberate spring. However determined she may 
have been to kill herself, she must have faltered in the act.” 

“ It would be only human to do so. Poor young thing — a mere 
child,’’ said Julian Wyllard^ regretfully. 

He talked apart with the guard, recommending that official to 
keep his eye upon the passengers w ho got out at Bodmin Road, and 
at all stations further down the line; to mark any man of ruffianly 
appearance or agitated demeanor; to give any such person in charge 
it he saw but the slightest reason tor suspicion. 


wyllard’s weird. 13 

The passengers had tesumed theit .^eats b}" this time, and the train 
began to move slowly onward. ^ T.he whole period of delay had not 
been twenty minutes, and the l|tie between Plymouth and Pen- 
zance was tolerably clear at this hour. The train would be able to 
pull up lost time before it reached ks destination. 

“You had belter come into my. carriage,"' said Julian Wyllard 
to the young man whom he had, addressed as Both well. 

“ I have only a third-class ticket,” answered the other. “ l"ve 
been smoking.” 

“ 1 never knew you doing anything else,"* said the banker, with 
a touch of scorn. “ Go back to your third-class carriage. No doubt 
you want, another pipe."" 

“ 1 believe, after that shocK, it will do me good,"’ said the young 
man, producing his cigarette-case on the instant and lighting up. 

Mr. Wyllard went 'back to the compartment where he had been 
sitting at ease all day and alone. There is a mysteiious power in 
the presence of such a man which, save in the stress of the tourist 
season, can generally secure solitude. The tourist season had not 
yet begun, and Mr. Wyllard .was known to be good for half-a- 
crown, and never to offer less: so his particular compart iiunt was 
sacred. Even bishons and notabilities of the land were hustled away 
from the door beguiled by the promise of something better elsewhere. 

He had strewed the carriage with newspapers and magazines, and 
now he began to collect all this literature and to strap it neatly to- 
gether before arriving at his journey’s end. He was neat and 
methodical in all small matters, yet he was in nowise a prig or a 
pedant. His tall, robust frame and strongly marked features were 
upon a large scale. He bad a large brain and a large manner. 

Look at him now, as he sits in his corner of the luxurious car- 
riage, against a background of light drab cloth. A man in the 
prime of manhood, five-and forty at most; a fine head, well set on, 
light brown hair, thick and silky, brushed aside from a broad 
square forehead, ir\ which there are all the indications of intellect- 
ual power. Large, full blue e3^es, w^hnse normal expression is se- 
vere, but the severity softens when the man smiles, changes to 
radiance and sparkles when the man laughs. He has a beautiful 
smile, a hearty, sonorous laugh, and a voice of pow^r and compass, 
rare among English voices. The features are firmly modeled, bold, 
massive; the mouth, when the lips are closely set, as they are just 
now, looks as if it were cutout of stone. A man likely to love pro- 
foundly, and not likely to hate lightly. A stanch friend, as every- 
body knows in this part of the country, but perchance a deadly foe, 
were great provocation given; a man to keep a secret as closely as 
the grave itself. A man to give money as freely as if it were water; 
large-minded in all things — yes, that phrase would most faithfully 
describe him. 

The train stopped at Bodmin Boad, in a picturesque valley, deep 
amidst pine-clothed hills, and adjoining an estate of exceptional 
beauty. There was a quiet little roailside inn, about five hvinutes" 
Walk from the station, and to this strange hostelry the dead ^irl was 
convej^ed, a shrouded form lying on a shutter, and carried by two 
railway porters. She was laid in a darkened chamber at the back 


14 


WtLLAKD's WEIRD. 


of the house, to await the advent of the coroner, a gentleman of 
some in'iportance, who lived ten miles oft. 

An open carriage was waiting for Julian Wyllard, and in (he car- 
riage sat a beautiful woman, smiling welcome upon him as he came 
out of the station. The dead girl had been carried out by another 
way. The lad^'- in the carriage knew notliing of the tragedy. 

“ How late the train is this evening,” she said. “ I was begin- 
ning to get uneasy.” 

There has been an accident.” 

“ An accident? Oh, how dreadful! But you are not hurt,” she 
cried, anxiously, looking at him from top to toe, suspicious of some 
deadly injury which he might be heroically concealing. 

” jSo, it was not a railway accident. There is no one hurt except 
a poor girl who threw herself, or was thrown, out of the train.” 

“How terrible!” exclaimed Mrs. Wyllard. ” Is it any one we 
know— any one about here?” 

'* No; siie is quite a stranger, poor child, and from her dress and 
general appearance 1 should taEe her to be a Frenchwoman. But 
we shall know more after the inquest.” 

” How dreadfully sad! A stranger, alone in a strange land, and 
to meet such a death! But do you really believe that any one threw 
her out of the train, Julian? That seems too terrible to be true!” 

” My dear, 1 believe nothing. The poor creature’s fate is 
shrouded in mystery. Whether she killed herself or whether any 
one killed her is an open question. 1 told the guard and the station- 
master to be on the alert, and to stop any suspicious character. 1 
sljall call at the police-office as we diive through the town. Here is 
Bothwell,” added Mr. Wyllard, as the young man came sauntering 
lazily along, throwing away the end of a cigarette as he came. 
” Did you know that he had gone to Plymouth?” 

” Not 1. He did not appear at luncheon, but as he is always 
erratic, 1 did not even wonder about him. W hat took you to Plym- 
outh this morning, Bothw^ell?” she asked, as her cousin came up to 
the carriage-door. 

They were first cousins, and it was his cousinship with Julian 
Wyllard's beautiful wile which secured Bothwell Grahame free 
quarters at Penmorval. They were children of twin sisters, who 
had loved each other with more than common love, wdio had seldom 
been parted till death parted them untimely. Both well’s mother 
was cut oft in the flower of her youth and beauty, leading her only 
child an infant; her husband a broken-hearted man. Captain Gra- 
hame went to India with his regiment, less than a year alter his 
wife’s death, to fight and fall in the Punjaub, and Bothwell, the 
orphan, was brought up by his mother’s sister, Mrs. Tregony Dal- 
niaine, at a lovely old manor-house near the Land’s End., 

He was four years old when Theodora Dalmaine was born, and 
he was to the child as an elder brother. They were brought up to- 
gether, played together, and shared the same school-room and the 
same governess, till Bothwell was drafted oft to Sandhurst, having 
set his heart upon being a soldier, and in his father's regiment. The 
bright, quick-wdtted girl was considerably in advance of the boy in 
all their mutual studies, despite his superior age. She was induS' 
trious where he was idle, for it must be owned that even in the be 


wyllard’s weird. 15 

ginning of things Bothwell was somewhat scampish in his mind and 
habits. 

He did pietty well at Sandhurst, passed his examinations respect- 
ably, if not with eclat His heart was set upon soldiering, and he 
did not object to work when his heart was in the labor. Be was a 
good soldier, and one of the most popular men in his regiment. He 
saw a good deal of active service in Afghanislan, not without distinc- 
tion, but he came lo griet in spite of his many good qualities. He 
plunged heavily, squandered every shilling of his small patri- 
mony, got into debt, got into scrapes of various kinds, and finally left 
the army, and thus dropped out of that one career for which nature 
and education had especially fitted him, turned aside from the one 
path which might have led him to fame and honor. And now he 
was an idler, without place or station in the world, money, or re- 
pute, an incumbrance and a burden to his family, as he told him- 
self every day. He had vague ideas of chalking out a career tor 
himself, had visions of colonial paradises where he might do won- 
ders; was always devising some new plan, inclining to some new 
place; but the visions had not yet taken any tangible form. He was 
always failiilg in with some new adviser who wrenched all his ideas 
out of the soil in which they had taken root, and transplanted them 
to another locality. 

Spanish America,’’ said Smith; “ don’t think of it. You would 
be dead in a week. Have you never heard of the wmito 7iegro, the 
deadliest disease known to man? Otaheite is the place for you, a 
superb climate, a new area for an enterprising young Englishman. 
You would make your fortune in three years.” 

Then came Jones, who laughed at the notion of the South Sea 
Islands, and advised Bothwell to get a tract of waste land near the 
mouth of the Gironde, and grow fir-trees and export their resin; 
that was the one certain road to fortune. You had first your resin, 
a large auhual revenue, and then you had your timber for railway 
sleepers, returning cent per cent. Bothwell did not venture to ask 
how you got your resin after you had sold your timber. • 

Anon came Robinson who recommended Canada and the lumber 
trade; and after him Brown, who declared that the only theater for 
intelligent youth was the interior of Africa. In the multitude of 
counselors there is wisdom, says Scripture; but Bothwell found 
that in the multitude of counselors there is bewilderment akin to 
madness. He had an honest desire to get his own living, but so far 
uncertainty as to the manner of getting it had barred the way to 
fortune. 

” What took me to Plymouth?” he repeated. “ Upon my word, 
1 hardly know, ll was so deadly quiet at Penmorval this morning. 
1 wanted to hear the voices of my fellow-men. 1 went third-class, 
you know, Dora. It wasn’t a very extravagant proceeding,” he 
murmured, confidentially. Shall 1 ride on the box?” 

” You had better come inside,” said Wyllard; ” there is plenty 
of room, ^’ whereupon Bothwell took the back seat of the barouche, 
opposite his cousin and her husband. 

Bodmin town was some miles from Bodmin Road, a lovely drive 
in I he tranquil July eventide; but both those men were haunted by 
the vision of that dead face, those dislocated limbs, hanging loose- 


IG . wyllahd’s aveikd. 

like> dead stag hauled along by the huntsmen. An event so 
terrible was not to be dismissed lightly. 

“ i wonder who she was, and where she was going?” said Both- 
well. 

” Some little nursery governess, 1 daresay, going to her situation.”' 

” In that case, we shall hear all about her at the inquest. She 
will have been expected, and her employers will come to the fore.” 

” What a terrible thing for her parents, if they are living; most 
of all for her poor mother,” said Mis. AVyilard. 

She pronounced the last word with peculiar softness. She had 
an exalted idea of the sacredness of the relationship between mother 
and child. She had passionately loved her own mother; had pas- 
sionately longed for a child in the earlier years of her wedded life. 
But she had been a wife seven years, and no child had lived to bless 
her. A son had been born within a year of her marriage, born only 
to die, and now she had left off hoping that she would" ever be 
called upon this earth by the dear name-of mother. 

They drove past familiar woods, and hills, ferny dells, and crys- 
tal streamlets. They saw the great brown torse standing afar off 
against the amber sky, but that one haunting thoughPof a horrible 
death spoiled all the beauty ot the scene. They had no eyes for 
the hindscape, but sat in serious silence. 

Mr. Wyllard alighted at the Bodmin police station, and spent 
about ten minutes in conversation with the inspector, who was at 
once shocked' and elated on hearing of the strange death on the rail- 
way. He was shocked at the horror ot the thing; he was elated at 
the idea ot an inquiry and investigation which might result in glory 
and in profit to himself. 

Mrs. Wyllard and Bothwell sat in the carriage while her husband 
and the official conversed gravely just inside the threshold ot the 
station-house. Bothwell talked about the girl and her mysterious 
death. He described the poor little white face, the look of honor 
in that wide, glassy stare of death. 

” Did she look like a lady?” asked Dora, full of painful interest. 

” Hardly, 1 think. She had that pretty neat appearance which 
one sees in French girls of a class just a little above the grisette. 
Her frock and her boots and her cotton gloves must all have suited 
herself and her station to a nicety. There was no touch ot that 
vulgar f:n« ry which makes a halt-bred English girl so odious. 1 
dare say Wyllard is right, and that she was a poor little governess 
going out into a strange land to earn her bread and learn a foreign 
language. There are thousands who go out every year, 1 have uo 
doubt, "only this one ha^ contrived to jump into notoriety and ah 
early grave at the same time. By Jove,, here comes the coroner. 
We shall be tlie first to tell him that he will be wanted to-morrow.” 

Mrs. Wyllard blushed faintly as she turned to look at an approach- 
ing horseman. She had not even to this day left off blushing at 
any sudden mention ot Edward Heathcote’s name; and yet it was 
eigiit years since she' had jilted him in order to marry Julian' Wyl- 
lard. 

A sad story, all forgiven now, if not forgotten. A deep wrong 
done by a noble-hearted woman to a noble-hearted man. It wgs the 
one act of Theodora Wyllard ’s life which she could not look back. 


wyllard’s weird. ;17 

upon without lemorse. In all other relfitions of life she had been 
perfect— devoted daughter, devoted wife. But in this one thing she 
had sinned. This man had loved her faithfully, fondly, from the 
dawn of her girlish beauty, from the beginning of her wouiaaly 
grace. She had accepted his love, and seemed to herself to return 
it, measure for measure. She had looked forward to the years when 
they two would be one. And then in an hour another face flashed 
across the foreground of her life — a new voice thrilled her ear— an 
influence was exercised over her which she had never felt before, a 
power too potent for resistance — and in a moment of passional e 
self-abandonment she had cast herself at Edward Heathcote’s feet, 
and had confessed her love for another. Julian Wyllard had 
broken down all barriers, had asked her to be his wife, knowing 
her to be engaged to another man. But a great irresistible love out-, 
weighs all scruples of honor or conscience. 

“ Why do you ask me for your freedom, as if it were so great a 
favor ?”"Heathcote asked, bitterly, as he lifted her up from her 
knees. Do you think 1 would have you — this mere beautiful clay 
—now that your heart has gone from me? Do you think 1, who 
love you a hundred times better than 1 love myself, w^ould stand 
between you and happiness? You are free, Dora. 1 have seen this 
misery coming upon me for the last month.’' 

“ And you will forgive me?” she pleaded, with clasped hands., 
looking at him with streaming eyes, soriy for him, deeply ashamed 
of her infidelity. 

“ Can 1 be angry with you, loving you as 1 do? God forgive 
you, darling, in all your sins, large or small, as freely as 1 forgive 
your sin against me.” 

He kissed her unresisting lips for the last time, and so left her, as 
nearly broken-hearted as a man can be and yet recover. 

He did recover, or was at any rate supposed to be cured, since 
two years after Theodora Dalmaine’s marriage he married a fair 
young girl, penniless, friendless, and an orphan; a wife wiio loved 
him as he deserved to be loved, and who, after three years of wedded 
life, died, leaving two children, twin daughters. It was three years, 
since the grave had closed upon her, and Edward Heathcote was still 
a widower, and was believed to have no thought of marriage. 

He came riding slowly along tlie street in the fading light, a man 
of striking appearance, mounted on a flue horse, a .maa of about 
seven-and-!hitty, tall, broad-shouldered. He had a dark com- 
plexion, and dark brown hair, dCep-set gray eyes, which looked 
almost bhick under dark heavy brows, an aquiline nose, a heavy 
mustache and beard. 

He had begun life as a younger son, and had practiced for some' 
years as a solicitor in the town of Plymouth- had been town-clerk, 
and a man of public importance in that town— when his elder broth- 
er died a bachelor, and Edward Heathcote inherited a snug little 
estate near Bodmin, with a curious old. country house called the 
Spaniards, having been so named in honor of the Spanish chestnuts 
which flourished there in great luxuriance and beauty. On becom- 
ing owner of the Spaniards and the estate that went with it, Edward 
Heathcote retired from the law, and went to live at Ihe place of his 
birth, where he lived a secluded life with his baby girls, letting his 


18 


WYLLAKD'S WEIKI). 


days glide by in the quiel monotony ot a count ry squire’s life/ 
hunting and shooting, sitting in judgment upon Jjoachers and small 
defaulters at petty sessions, and acting as coroner tor his division 
bt the county. He had been leading the life of placid rural re- 
spectability for a year. 

He rode uf) to the carriage and shook hands with Mrs. "Wyllard. 
He was her neighbor, and had visited at Peuinorval during the last 
year. There had never been the faintest indication in his manner 
or his speech that Julian Wyllard’s wife was any more to him than 
a friend. He was pleased to visit her, anxious that she should be 
interested in his motherless children, pleased to confide his plans 
and his'thoughts to her. Time had sobered his enthusiasm, and 
softened all blitter memories. He took life now as a gentle legato 
movement. He had lived and suffered, and done his duly, and that 
which was left to him was rest. He sat down among his fields 
and his vineyards to take his ease just a little earlier than ether 
men, that was all. A great sorrow suffered in the morning ot life 
ages a man at least by a decade. 

“ Why are you waiting outside the station-houseV” he asked. 
“ Have you had an alarm of burglars at Penmorval?” 

“It is something much worse than that,” answered Mrs. Wyl- 
lard, gravely; and then Bothwell related the catastrophe on the rail- 
way. Julian W'yllard came back to the carriage just as Both^yell 
fihished. 

‘ This will be a job for you, Heathcote,” he said. 

“ A very sad one. The story has a brutal sound to me, remem- 
bering past stories of the same kind,” answered Mr. Heathcote. 

It sliall not be my fault if the ruffian escapes.” 

“ You think there is a ruffian, then? You don’t take it for a case 
of suicide?” 

“ Decidedly not,” replied the other, promptly. “ Why should a 
girl choose such a death as that?” 

•“Why should a girl throw herself off the Monument?” de- 
manded Mr. Wyllard. ” Yet we know girls had a rage for doing 
that fifty years ago. However, yon will have a good opportunity 
tor the display of your legal acumen in a really mysterious case. 1 
did all 1 could in my small way to put the officials on the alert 
along the line; and it any scoundrel had a hand in that poor child’s 
death, 1 don’t believe he will get off too easily. W^here are you 
riding?” 

“ Only for an everting stroll over the downs.” 

“ You liad better come home and have supper with us. It w^ill 
be too late to call it dinner.” 

“Ho, thanks; 1 dined at seven. Besides, I shall have to arrange 
about this inquest for to-morrow. I’ll talk to Morris, and then 
ride on to the Vital Spark, and settle matters with the people 
there.” 

The Vital Spark was the small road-side inn, where the dead 
girl was Ijing. The Wyllard barouche drove oft while Edward 
Heathcote stopped to talk to Morris, the inspector. The jury would 
have to get notice early next morning. The inquest was to be held 
at five in the atternoon. This would give time for the tradesmen to 


ayyllakd’s weird. 19 

get away from Uieir shops. The chief husieess of the day would 
be over. 

“ It will give time for any one in this neighborhood, who knows 
anything about Ihe girl, to come forward,” added Mr. ilcaihcote. 
” If she was going to a situation in this part of the world, as Mr. 
Wyllard suggests, some one must know all about her.'*’ 

” What a man he is, Mr. Healhcote,” said the inspector admir- 
ingl3^ ” Such clearness, such decision; always to the point,” 

“ Yes, he is a very superior man,” answered Healhcote, heartily. 

He had schooled himself long ago to generous thoughts abiuit his 
rival. It pleased him J.o know that Dora had been lucky in her 
choice; that she had not taken a scorpion into her bosom wlien she 
preferred another man to himself. He had wondered sometimes — 
in a mere idle wonder, when he saw her in her beautiful home at 
Penmorval— whether it would have been possible for liim to make 
her life happier than Julian W^yllard had made it; whether, in his 
uttermost adoration, he could ever have been a better husband to 
her than Julian Wyllard had been. He had looked searchingly for 
any flaw in the perfection of that union, and he had perceived hone. 
He w'as generous-minded enough to be glad that it was so. 

The carriage drove slowly up a long hill, and across a wide ex- 
panse of heathy ground, before it entered the gate of Penmorval, 
wdiich was two miles from the town. It was a beautiful old place, 
standing on high ground, yet so richly wooded as to be shut in 
from the outer world. Only the Cornish giants, Roughtor and 
Brown Willie, showed their dark crests above the broad belt of 
timber which surrounded the good old Tudor mansion. A double 
avenue of elms and yews Jed to the old stone porch. The long 
stone fagade facing northward looked out upon a level lawn divided 
from the park b}" a haw-haw. The •southeim front was curtained 
with rose and myrtle, and looked upon one of the loveliest gardens 
in Cornwall, a garden which had been the pride and delight of many 
generations— a garden for which the wives and dowagers of three 
centuries of Cornish squires had labored and thought. Ko where 
could be found more glorious roses, or such a treasury of out of-the- 
way flowers, from the finest to the simplest tlmt grows. Nowhere 
did April sunlight shine upon such tulips and liyacinihs, nowhere 
did June crowm herself with fairer lilies, or autumn blaze in greater 
splendor of dahlias, hollyhocks, and cnrysanthemums. The soil 
teemed with flowers. There was no room left for a weed. 

Por a childless wife like Dora Wyllard a garden such as this Is a 
kind of spurious family. IShe has her hopes, her fears, her rapt- 
ures and anxieties about her roses and chiysanlhemums just as 
mothers have about their girls and boys. Hhe counts the blossoms 
on a particular Gloire de Dijon. She remembers the cruel winter 
when tliat superb John Hopper succumbed to the frost. She has 
her nostrums and reiuedies for the green fly, as mothers have tor 
measles. That glorious old garden helped to fill the cup of Mrs. 
Wyllard’s happiness, for it gave her inexhaustible employment. 
With such a garden she could never say, with the languid yawm of 
the idle and the prosperous, ” What can 1 do with. myself to-day^?” 
But Dora was not dependent on heP garden for occupation. Exact- 
ing as the roses and the lilies were, manifold as were the care’s of 


20 


wyllard’s weird. 


the liot-liouses and ferneries and wildernesses, Mrs. Wyllard’s hus- 
band was more exacting still. When Julian was at home she could 
give but little time to her garden. He could hardly bear his wife to 
oe out obhis sicrht for half an hour. She had to be interested in all 
his schemes, all his letters, even to the driest business details. She 
rode and drove with him, and as he had no taste for field sports, 
neither his guns nor his hunters took him away from her. He was 
a studious man, a man of artistic temperament, a lover of curious 
books and fine bindings, a lover of pictures, and statues, and porce- 
lain and enamels — a worshiper of the beautiful in every form. His 
tastes were such as a woman could easily and naturally share with 
him. This made their union all the more complete. Other wives 
wondered at beholding such domestic sympathy. There were some 
whose husbands could not sit bv the domestic hearth ten minutes 
without dismal yawnings, men who depended upon newspapers for 
all their delight, men whose minds were always in the stable. Julian 
Wyllard was an ideal husband, who never yawned in a tete-d-iete 
with his wife, who shared every joy and every thought with the 
woman of his choice. 

To-night, when they two sat down to the half-past nine o'clock 
meal with Both well, who was not much worse than a Newfound- 
land dog, tor their sole companion, the wife’s first question showed 
her familiarity with the business that had taken her husband to 
Londop. 

“Well, Julian, did you get the Raffaelle?” she asked. 

“No, dear. The picture went for just three times the value 1 
had put upon it.” 

“ And you did not care to give such a price?” 

“ Well, no. There are limits, even for a monomaniac like me. 1 
had allowed myself a margin. I was prepareji to give a hundied or 
two over .the thousand which 1 had put down as the price of the 
picture, but when it went up to fifteen hundred 1 retired from the 
contest, and it was finally knocked down to Lamb, the dealer, for 
two thousand guineas. A single figure— a half-length figure of 
Christ bearing the cross, against a background of vivid blue sky. 
But such an adorable countenance, such pathetic eyes. 1 saw 
women turn away with tears after they had looked at that picture.” 

“ Y'ou ought to have bought it,” said Dora, who knew that her 
husband had a great deal more money than he could spend, and 
who thought that he had a right to indulge his own caprices. 

“ My dearest, as 1 said before, there are limits,” he answered, 
smiling at her enthusiasm. 

“ Then you had your journey, and I bad to endure the loss of 3 mur 
society for three dreary days, all for nothing,” said Dora. 

“ Not quite for nothing. Tiit-re was the pleasure of seeing a veiy 
fine collection of pictures, and some magnificent Limoges enamels. 
1 succeeded in buying you a little Greuze. 1 am told by French 
art critics that it is a low thing to admire Greuze — the sign of a vul- 
gar mind. He is the painter of the bourgeois^ the e^ncier. But, for 
all tliat, you and 1 have agreed to like Greuze, so i bought this lit- 
tle picture for your morning-room. 1 got it for five hundred and 
fifty, and 1 believe it is a genuine bit in the painter’s best manner.” 


wyllard's aveird. 21 

“ How good you are to me/’ exclaimed Dora, getting up and 
going over lo her husband. 

Slie bent down to kis^ him as he sat at the table. They had dis- 
missed the servants from this informal meal, so Mrs. Wyllard was 
not afraid ot being considered eccentric, if she showed that she was 
grateful. She did not mind Boihwell. Five hundred and tifly. 
How freely this rich man talked ot his hundreds, as it seemed to 
Both well, pinched by the consciousness of debts which the cost of 
that picture would have covered, little seedlinsrs of deOts, scattered 
long ago by the wayside, and patting forth perennial flgwers in the 
shnpe of unpleasant letters from creditors, which made him hate the 
sight of the postman. 

ISteither Wyllard nor Grahame ate a hearty meal. That picture 
of the dead face was too vividly present in the minds of both. Meat 
and drink and pleasant talk were out of harmony with that horror 
which both had looked upon three hours ago. They took more 
wine than usual, and hardly ate anything. 

“ Will you come for a stroll in the garden, Julian?” asked Dora, 
as they rose from the table. 

It was halt-past ten o’clock, a lovely summer night. A" sreat 
golden moon was shining low down in the purple sky, just above 
the bank of foliage, not that far oft moon which belongs to all the 
world, but a big yellow lamp lighting one’s own garden. 

“ Do come,” she said, ” it is such a delicious night.’' 

“ I dare not indulge myself, dear, I have my letters to open be- 
rfore I go to bed. 1 was just going to order a fire in my study.” 

“ A fire, on such a night as this? I’m 'afraid you have caught 
cold.” 

1 think it not unlikely,” answered her husband, as lie rang the 

bell. 

” Don’t you think your letters might keep till to-morrow morn- 
ing, Julian?” pleaded Dora. ‘‘We could have a fire in the morn- 
ing-room, and sit and talk.” 

” That would be delightful; but 1 must not allow myself to be 
tempted. 1 should not rest to-night with the idea of a pile of un- 
opened letters.” 

He gave his orders to the servant. His letters and papers were 
all on his study table. A fire was to be lighted there immediately. 

“You will be late, 1 am afraid,” said Dora. 

‘‘ 1 may be a little late. Don’t wait up for me on any account, 
dearest. Good night!” 

He kissed her, and she said good-night, but reserved her liberty 
to sit up for him all the same. There is no use in a husband saying 
to a wife of Mrs. W'yllard’s temperament, ” Don’t sit up for me, 
and don’t worry yourselt!” Sleep "was impossible to Dora until she 
knew that her husband was at rest, just as happiness was impossi- 
ble to her when parted from him. She had made herself a part of 
his being, had merged her very existence with his; she had no 
value, hardly any individuality apart from him. 

“Julian looks tired and anxious,” she said to her cousin, who 
stood smoking a cigarette just outside the window. 

“ Y’ou can’t be Surprised at that,” answered Bothwell. “That 


22 


wyllahd’s weird. 


business on the railwaj^ was enough to make any man feel queer. 1 
shall not forget it for a long time.” 

It must have been an awful shock. And men with strong nat- 
ures and powerful frames are sometimes raoie sensitive than your 
tragUe beings with nervous temperaments,” said Dora. “1 have 
often been struck with Julian’s morbid feeling about things which 
a strong man might be supposed to regard with indifierence.” 

He is a deuced good fellow,” said Bothwell, who had been 
more generously treated by his cousin’s husband than by anj’ of his 
own clan.. ” Won’t you come for a turn in the garden? 1 won’t 
start another cigarette, if you object.” 

” You know 1 don’t mind smoke,” she answered, joiningjiim. 
“ Why, how your hand shakes, Bothwell. You can hardly light 
your cigarette.” 

” Didn’t 1 say that I was upset by that business? 1 don’t sup- 
pose 1 shall sleep a wink to-night.” 

They walked in the rose garden for more than an hour. Garden 
and night were both alike ideal. An Italian garden, with formal 
terraces, and beds of roses, and a fountain in the center, a bold 
and plenteous jet that rose from a massive marble basin. Roses, 
magnolia, jasmine, and Mary lilies filled the air with perfume. 
The n)oon had changed from gold to silver, and was high up in the 
heavens. 

It was everybody’s moon now, silvering the humble roofs of Bod- 
min, shining over the church, the jail, the lunatic asylum, and shin- 
ing on that huml)\e village inn five or six miles away, beneath 
wliose rustic roof the stranger was lying, with none to pray beside 
her bed or weep upon her pillow. 

Botliwell sauniered silently by his cousin's side. She, too, was 
silent," and felt no inclination to talk or to listen. She was glad to 
be out ill the garden while her husband opened his letters. She 
knew there was a pile of correspondence waiting for him. Such 
letters as devour the leisure of a country gentleman of wealth and 
high standing— letters for the most part uninteresting, and very 
often troublesome. It would take Julian Wyllard a long time ‘o 
wade through them all. But when the stable clock struck twelve, 
Dora thought she might fairly hope to find the task finished. 

” Good-night, Bothwell,” she said, “ I’ll go and look for Julian.” 

The servants had all gone to bed, and the lamps had been extin- 
guished, except in the hall and corridors. A half-glass door opened 
from the garden into the hall, and this was always left unbolted for 
the accommodation of Bothwell, who was fond of late saunterings 
in the grounds. The library was at the further end of the house-^ 
a superb room, filled with a choice collection of books, the growth 
of the last seven years, tor Julian Wyllard was a nevv man in the 
county, and had only owned Peumorval during that period. 

There was a good fire burning in the artistic- tiled grate, a mod- 
ern improvement upon the bid arrangement in wrought iron. Mr, 
Wyllard had opened all his letters, and had evidently burned some 
of them, for an odor of calcined paper and sealing-wax pervaded 
the room. 

He was silting in a low' chair beside the hearth, in a stooping al- 
titude, deeply meditative, looking down at some object in his hands. 


, ^YYLLARD’S WEIRD. 23 

He was so profoundly absorbed, as to be unconscious of Dora’s pres- 
ence till she was standing close behind him. 

The object which so engrossed his attention, which had led his 
thoughts backward to the tar-away past, was a long tress of chest 
nut hair. He had wound it round his fingeis— -a smooth, silken 
tress, which flashed with gleams of gold in the light of the cheery 
fire. 

“ What beautiful hair,” said Dora, gently, as she looked down- 
ward from behind his shoulder. ” Whose is it, Julian?” 

” It was my sister’s,” he answered. 

The sister who died so many years ago. Poor Julian. You 
have been sitting here alone giving yourself up to sad memories.” 

“ 1 came upon this auburn tress among some old papers just now, 
while 1 was looking for Martin’s lease.” 

He rolled the hair up quickly, and flung it into the flaming coals. 

“Oh, Julian, why did you do that?” asked his wife, reproach- 
fully. 

** What is the use of keeping such things? It can only perpetu- 
ate a sorrowful memory. It is a folly to preserve such a token of 
the dead. God knows we have enough of our dead. They haunt 
and plague us at every stage of life. We can not get rid of them.” 

The bitterness of his tone jarred upon his wife’s ear. 

” Mv dearest, you are wearied and out of spirits,” she said. 
” You have worked too long. Were your letters troublesome?” 

Not more so than usual, dear. ITes, 1 am very tired.” 

” And that dreadful event on the line has troubled you. Poor 
Bothwell is quite upset by it. 1 am so sorry for you, Julian,” said 
his wife, soothingly, leaning upon his shoulder, smoothing back the 
thick hair from the broad, full brow. 

” My dear child, there is no reason to be sorry for me. Dreadful 
events are happening every day all over the world. We hear of 
them, and feel how feeble a thing life is under such conditions as 
those on which we all hold our existence. This evening, 1 hap- 
pened to be brought face to face with a terrible death. That is all 
the difference.” 


CHAPTER II. 

AFTER THE INQUEST. 

There was a great excitement in Bodmin on the afternoon of the 
inquest, a delicious summer afternoon, which seemed made for 
quiet arcadian joys, an afternoon to be spent in day dreams under 
forest boughs, or drifting lazily a-down a placid stream, rather than 
for gathering together in a stifling tavern parlor, listening to the 
droning accents of a police-constable, or the confused statemenis 
and innocent prevarications of a railway porter. But it may be that 
the inhabitants of Bodmin had drunk their fill of the cup of pas- 
toral joys, that they had had more than enough of heathery moor- 
land and foxglove- bordered land, dog-rose and honeysuckle, waving 
boughs and winding streams. At any rate, they all with one ac- 
cord flocked to the little inn beyond Bodmin Road Station, and 
elbow ed and hustled one another in the endeavor to get a good view 
of the coroner and the witnesses. 


24 


avyllard’s weird. 


An inquest was not in itself s.uch a thrilling event. There had 
been inquests held in Bodmin which inspired neither curiosity nor 
interest in the mind of the town. But this inquiry of to-day inter- 
ested everybody. Who could tell what mystery— what story of 
falseliood and wrong — had gone before that sad, strange death? 
The report had gone about that the victim was a foreigner, and this 
gave a deeper note to the mystery. Why had she come to that spot 
to kill herself, or who had taken her there to murder her? These 
.were the questions which were discussed in Bodmin freely that 
morning — questions which gave birth to various wise ana abstruse 
theories, every one of which seemed to the inventor thereof a most 
plausible explanation of this dark problem in human history. 

‘ If anybody can throw light upon the business, Squire Heath- 
cote is the man to do it,” said Mr. Bate, grocer, general dealer, and 
church-warden. 

mdward Ileathcote was one of the most popular men in the 
neighborhood. He was a native of the soil, had been known to the 
neighborhood from his childhood. He came of a race that was 
lield in high honor, which had produced men famous in the arts ot 
war and peace in the days that were gone. Honor, courage, and all 
generous feelings were supposed to run in the blood of the Heath- 
cotes. He had succeeded to a small estate and a fine old grange, in 
which his forefathers had lived for generation upon generation. In 
the deei)est night of past ages there had been Ileathcotes in the 
land. Thus, albeit he was by no means a rich man as compared 
with Julian Wyllard, he stood higher than the wealthy banker in 
the esteem of those good old Conservatives who held that money is 
not everything. Mr. W3dlard was a new-comer, had bought Pen- 
morval just before his marriage — choosing this part of the world 
for his residence because Theodora Dalmaine loved it, rather than 
‘from any leaning of his own. He was known to have made the 
greater part ot his money himself— a low thing for a man to have 
done! Even commercial fortunes become hallow’ed after they have 
filtered from father to son tor three or four generations. Thus, 
although he was altogether the most important personage in the 
neighborhood, and belonged to the landed gentry by right of recent 
purchase, there were people who looked upon Julian Wyllard as a 
parvenu, and who were somew^hat disposed to resent the 'weight 
which his wealth gave him in local affairs. 

Squire Ileathcote was said to be the best coroner who had filled that 
office at Bodmin withjn the memory of the oldest inhabitant. His 
legal experiences had been of a wider range than those of the aver- 
age provincial solicitor. He had served his articles to a w^ell-known 
London firm; he had traveled a good deal in his youU), and had 
seen men and cities. He had been brought into close relations with 
his fellow men under manifold conditions, and he was said to be a 
marvelous judge of character, an impartial and clear-headed judge. 
On more than one occasion he had shown an acumen rhiely met 
with at a rural inquest; and he- had disentangled more than one 
knotted skein. It w^as argued, therefore, that if any one could un- 
ravel the mystery ot the dead girl’s fate Bquire Heathcote was the 
man to do it. 

J^othiug could be quieter or less pretentious than his manner as he 


wtllard’s weird. 


25 


took his seat at the head of the long table in the parlor of the YitaW 
Spark; but there were signs of. anxiety or emotion in the somber 
fire of the deep-set gray eyes, and the nervous movement of the sun- 
burnt hand, which played with his dark chestnut beard. He sat 
for some minutes looking down to his notes, and then slowly raised 
his eyes and surveyed the room, which was quite full. 

Mr. Wyllard was sitting; near the opposite end of the table, with 
little Dr. Menheniot by his side. Both well Grahame was seated 
apart from them and nearer the jury. He had a haggard look, Mr. 
Heathcote thought, as of a man who had passed a troubled night. 
There were three or four railway officials present, and these were 
the principal witnesses. First came the guard on the down train 
from Paddington, whose evidence was meager, since it appeared 
that he had only seen the dead girl standing on the font-board a 
moment before she fell. She was standing on the foot-board and 
clinging to the handrail with her face to the coach. That was his 
impression. It had not seemed to him that she threw herself off 
the toot-board. It had seemed rather as if she had dropped off. 

“ Was it your impression that she was thrown off?” asked Heath- 
cote. 

” No, sir; 1 can’t say that was my impression. But the whole 
thing was too quick for me to have a very clear idea either way. 
My first thought was how 1 could save her. 1 had only just stepped 
out upon the foot board when she*gave a shriek and fell. She was 
at the further end of the train. Before 1 could get to the carriage 
from which she had fallen the engine had slackened and the people 
were getting out.” 

” Did you find the carriage out of which she fell?” 

” Yes, sir. There was an empty second-class next but one to the 
engine. 1 believe that was the compartment. There was a little 
basket with some refreshments, and a newspaper, which 1 believe 
belonged to the deceased.” 

The basket was on the table. It had a foreign look ; a poor little 
basket, containing a few cherries in a cabbage leaf, and a little bag 
of biscuits. The newspaper was the French ” Figaro.” The 
coroner handed, the basket to the jury, who examined the contents 
curiously. There was no scrap of writing, no card or old letter; 
nothing to identity the dead girl, or to indicate the place from 
which she had come. 

” Her clothes and the contents of the pockets have "been ex- 
amined,” said Mr. Heathcote, in reply to a question from one of 
the jury, ” but no mark or clew has been found. Nor has any lug- 
gage belonging to her been discovered, which is curious, since it is 
not often that any one travels from London to Cornwall without 
luggage. 1 have communicated with the London police, and 1 have 
sent an advertisement to the ‘ Times,’ and to a Parisian newspaper. 
Perhaps, by this means we shall discover the girl’s' identity . In the 
meantime the question is, How did she come by her death?” 

The next witness was a porter from the Plymouth station, who 
had taken notice of the girl there while the train waited. He had 
seen her on the platform, alone. He was sure that he had not seen 
her speak to anybody. She. walked up and down the platform twm 
or three times, and he thought she looked puzzled and anxious, as 


26 


3VYLLARD's aveikd. 


ix she expected to meet somebody who had not come. He was too 
busy lookiug after people’s luggage to watch her closely, but he 
had noticed her because she looked like a foreigner He saw her 
get into a second-class compartment near the engine just as the train 
was starting. She got in hurriedly, and it seemed to him that some 
one inside the compartment had opened the door for her and helped 
her in; but he could not be positive about this, as he was a long 
way oft at the time. He had seen the deceased and recognized her 
as (he young person he had observed at Plymouth. 

Dr. Menheniot was the next witness. He gave technical evidence 
as to the cause of the girl’s death; but as to the circumstances that 
preceded her fall he could say no more than the guard: Yes, a 
little more, for he had seen the carriage door opened and the girl 
stepping out on the band-rail. Yes; in answer to tlie coroner’s 
question, it had seemed to him that some one thrust her out, yet he 
could not swear that it was so. The door had opened suddenly;. 
and he had seen her standing on the foot-board, clinging to the open 
door. If she had meant to commit suicide it appeared to him that she 
would have leaped at once from the carriage over the embankment. 
The act of standing on the foot-board and clinging to the carriage 
would imply resistance. 

“ ll might mean only hesitation,” said Heathcote. ” How long 
do you suppose she remaim^d standing on the foot -board?” 

” Hardly a minute — perhaps not more than thirty seconds. 1 
heard the guard signal for the stopping of the train and then her 
ihriek as slie fell. It was almost instantaneous. The engine was 
just on the bridge when 1 first saw her. It was in the middle of 
the bridge when she tell. That wdll give you the best idea as to 
time.” 

“ ;Not more than thirty seconds,” said the coroner, who knew every 
yard of the line. ” Is there any one else here who can tell us any- 
thing about this poor girl’s death?” 

There was no one else, though there were tw’^enty people in the 
room who had been in the same train, and had gone down into the 
gorge to see that poor crushed form lying amid ferns and fox-gloves, 
to look curiously at the small white face, the childish lips forever 
mute in death. No one could tell any more, or indeed as much, 
about the details of the catastrophe as Dr. Menheniot and the guard, 
both of whom had seen the fall; whereas no one else happened to 
have been looking out of window on the near side of the train. 

“We will adjourn the inquest for a fortnight,” said Air. Heath- 
cote, presently, after a whispered consultation with the jury. ” The 
matter is much too mysterious to be dismissed without a very care- 
ful investigation. A fortnight will give ample time for the friends 
of the deceased to come forward. I have ordered photographs to be 
taken, with a view to her identification. Burial can not, of course, 
be delayed beyond the usual time.” 

There were morbid minds among ihe spectators who envied the 
photographer his ghastly office. The inquest was felt to have been 
disappointing. Revelations had been expected, and none had come. 
But Mr. Heathcote had pronounced the case deeply mysterious: 
and there was comfort in the idea that he might know more than 
he caied to reveal yet awhile. 


WYLLARD S WEIRD. 


27 


Julian Wyllard bad driven from Penmorval in his own particular 
dog-cart, with one of the finest horses in the district. ' Bothwell 
Orahame, who was a great walker and altogether independent in his 
habits, had come across the hills, and over corn-fields and meadow^ 
as straight as the crow flies. The master of Penmorval’s smart trap 
and high-stepping gray were out of sight before Bothwell left the 
pathway in front of the Vital Spark, where he lingered to talk over 
the inquest with some ot his Bodmin acquaintances. The young 
Scotchman was steeped to the eyes in true Caledonian pride ot race, 
but he had none ot that petty pride which makes a man scornful ot 
that portion of the human race which earns its bread by humble 
avocations. He was as triendly with a railway porter or a village 
tradesman as with the proudest land- owner in the county, had not 
two sets of manners for high and low, or two distinct modes of 
speech for gentle and simple— the very intonation different .tor that 
interior clay. Bothwell had never been able to understand why 
some of the men he knew talked to a tradesman or a servant just 
as they would have spoken to a dog; or, indeed, much less civilly 
than Bothwell spoke to his dogs. He was a stanch Conservative’ in 
most things, but in this one question of respect for his fellow-m^u 
he was an unmitigated Radical. 

And now he loitered in front of the inn door, talking to the rail- 
way officials who had appeared at the inquest, and/who knew Mr, 
Grahame as a frequent traveler between Bodmin Road and Plym- 
outh. 

“ There was one thing that didn’t come out just now,” said the 
station-master, ” and that was the girl’s ticket. The ticket was for 
Plymouth, and yet here w^as this poor young ihing goin^ on toward 
Penzance. Why was she going beyond her first destinalion, eh, 
Mr. Grahame? Why did she wa k up and down the platform at 
Plynumth as if she expected some one to meet her thcref Why did 
she get into the train at the last moment, just as it was moving out 
of the station? Don’t it seem likely that the individual wlu; was to 
have met her in the station for which she had taken her ticket was 
the same individual that helped her into the train, and that he made 
away with her? A husband, perhaps, who wanted to get lid of a 
troublesome foreign wife. And he tells her to meet him at Plym-^ 
outh, and he is there to meet her, but not on the platform as she 
expects. He is there in hiding in a railway carriage, and he 
beckons her in just as the train is starting, when he is least likely to 
be observed in the bustle and hurry of the start!” 

‘‘ You put your story together very well, Mr. Chafy,” said Both- 
well, somewhat indifferently, as it not deeply interested in this 
mj'-slery which so inthralled the Bodmin mind. ” You ought to 
have been a detective. But if this poor girl was murdered, and her 
murderer was in the train, how is it that you who are so sharp could 
not contrive to spot him when you took stock of the passengers? 
Mr. Wyllard gave you the office. 1 remember.” 

‘‘ Murderers do not carry the brand of Cain, Mr. Grahame,” said 
Edward Heathcote, who had come out of the door in time to 
hear Both well’s speech. I'he assassins of our civilized era are 
high-handed gentlemen, very cunning of fence, and have no more 
mark upon them than you or 1.” 


28 


wyllard’s weird. 

“ 1 believe ibe girl’s death was an accident,” said Both well, with 
a touch of impatience; ” one of those profound mysteries which are 
as simple as A B C. She may have been standing by the door ad- 
miring the landscape, and the door may have opened as she leaned 
against it. She might recover herself so far as to hold on to the 
foot-board for a few seconds, clinging to the hand-rail, and then she 
fell and was killed.” 

” Not a very plausible explanation, my dear Grahame. She was 
leaning against the door, looking out at the landscape, you suggest, 
and the door opened and let her out. How was it, then, that when 
JMenheniot and the guard saw her she was standing on the foot- 
board with her face to the carriage? Did she swing herself round 
on the foot-board, as on a pivot, do you suppose? Rather a difficult 
achievement, even for an acrobat.” 

“You need not be so deuced clever,” retorted Bothwell, who 
seemed altogether out of sorts this afternoon “ It is not my busi- 
ness to hnd out how the young woman came by her death.” 

“ No,” said the coroner, “ but it is mine, and 1 mean to do it.” 

“ It won’t be the first queer case you’ve got to the bottom of, Mr. 
Heathcote',” said the station-master, in a tone of respect that 
amounted alniost to reverence. “ You remember poor old Uncle 
Taylor, who was found dead at the bottom of the Merrytree shaft 
over to Truro? You put a rope round the neck of the scoundrel who 
killed him, you did. There’s not many men clever enough to keep 
a secret from you.” 

“ Good-night, squire; good-night, Chafy,” said Bothwell moving 
ofl:. 

Edward Heathcote followed him. 

“"If you are walking home. I’ll go part of the way with you,” he 
said. 

“What! are you on foot?” asked Both^vell, surprised. “ What 
has become of Timour?” 

“ Timour is in a barn, with his shoes off, getting ready for the 
cub-hunting.” 

“ And the rest of your stud?” 

“ 1 have plenty of horses to ride, it that is what you mean; but 1 
rather prefer w^alking, in such weather as this. How is it you did 
not drive home in your cousin’s dog-cart?” 

“ i hate silting beside another man to be driven,” said Bothwell, 
shortly. “ There are times, too, when a fellow likes to be alone.” 

If this were intended for a hint Mr. Heathcote did not take it. 
He produced his cigar-case and ottered Bothwell one of his 
Partagas. He was a great smoker, and renowned for smoking good 
tobacco, so Bothwell accepted the cigar and lighted it, but did not 
relax the sullen air which he had assumed when Mr. Heathcote 
volunteered his company. 

“ You are not looking over well this afternoon, Grahame,” said 
Heathcote, when they had walked a little way, silently smoking 
their cigars. 

“ Oh, there’s nothing the matter with me,” the young man an- 
swered, carelessly. “ 1 was up late, and 1 had a bad night, that’s 
all.” 


wyllard’s weird. 


29 

‘'You were troubled about yesterday’s business/' suggested the 
coroner. 

The girl’s dead face haunted me; but 1 had troubles of my own 
without that.” 

“You must have seen a good many dead faces in India?” 

“ Y'es, 1 have seen plenty — black and white — but there are some 
things against which a man can not harden himself, and sudden 
death is one of them.” 

He relapsed into silence, and Heathcote and he walked side by 
side for some time without a word, the lawyer contemplating the sol- 
dier, studying him as it he had been a difficult page in a book. 
Edward Heathcote had spent a good deal of his life in studying liv- 
ing books of this kind. His practice in Plymouth had been of a 
very special character; he had been trusted in delicate matters, had 
held the honor of noble families in his keeping, had come between 
father and son, husband and wife; had been guide, philosopher, 
and friend, as. well as legal adviser. His reputation for fine. feeling 
and high moral character, the fact of his good birth and ample 
means, had made him the chosen repository of many a famil}^ secret 
which would have been trusted to very few solicitors. His name in 
Plymouth was a synonym for honor, and his advice, shrewd lawyer 
though he was, always leaned to the side of chivalrous feeling rather 
than to bare justice. 

Such a man must have had ample occasion for the study of human 
nature under strange aspects. It was, therefore, a highly-trained 
intellect which was now brought to bear upon Both well Grahame, 
as he walked silently beside the flowering hedgerows in that quiet 
Cimnish lane, puffing at his cigar, and looking straight before him 
into vacancy. 

Mr. Heathcote had seen a good deal of Captain Grahame during 
the year he had lived at Penmorvai; but he never had seen such a 
look of care as he saw in the soldier’s face to-day.. Trouble of some 
kind — and of no light or trifling kind — was gnawing the man’s 
breast. Of that fact Edward Heathcote was assured; and there was 
a strange sinking at his own heart as he speculated upon the nature 
of that secret trouble w^hich Both well was trying his best to hide 
under a show of somewhat sullen indifference. 

As coroner and as law\ver, Mr. Heathcote had made up his mind 
more than an hour ag(x that the girl lying at the Vital Spark had 
been murdered. She had been thrust out of the railway carriage, 
flung over the line into that dreadful gulf, by some person who 
w^anted to make, away with her. Her murderer was to be looked 
for in the train; had traveled intone of those carriages; had been 
one among those seemingly innocent travelers, all professing a like 
ignorance of the girl's identity. One among those three-and-twenty 
people whom Chafy, the station-master, had counted and taken 
stock of 'at Bodmin Road Station, must needs be the murderer. 
That one, whoever he was, had borne himself so well astobatfle the 
station-master’s scrutiny. He had shown no trace of remorse, 
agitation, guilty fear. He had borne himself at all points as an in- 
nocent man. 

But what if the criminal were one whom the station-master knew 


30 


wtllard’s weird. 


and respected— a man of mark and standing in the neighborhood, 
whose very name disarmed suspicion? 

Such a man Vvoiild have passed out of the station unobserved; 
or, it any signs of agitation were noted in his manner, that emotion 
would be put down to kindly feeling, the natural pity of a benevo- 
lent mind. Had any hard-handed son of toil — a stranger in the land, 
reaper, miner, sea-faring man— had such a one as this exhibited signs 
of discomposure, suspicion would at once have been on the alert. 
But who could suspect Mrs. Wyllard’s soldier cousin — the idle, 
open handed gentleman, who had made himself everybody’s favorite? 

It would have been a wild speculation to suppose, because Both- 
■ well’s countenance and manner were so charged with secret trouble, 
,that his was the arm which thrust that poor girl to her untimely 
death. Yet the coroner found himself dwelling upon this wild 
fancy, painful as it was to him to harbor any evil thought of Uora 
Wyllard's cousin. 

There were several points which forced themselves upon his con- 
sideration— as it were, in spite ot himself. First, Bolhweil’s changed 
manner to- day —his avowal of a troubled night— his evident wisli to 
be alone— his incivility, as of one whose mind was set on edge by 
painful thoughts. Then came the fact ot his journey to Plymouth 
on that day — a journey undertaken suddenly, without any explana- 
tion offered to his cousin — a seemingly purposeless trip, since he had 
given no reason tor absenting himself, stated no business in the 
town. He had gone and returned within a few hours, and his jour- 
ney had been a surprise to his cousin and her husband. Thirdly, 
there was his clumsy attempt to explain the girl’s death just now, in 
front of the inn door; his unwillingness to admit the idea of foul 
play. He who excuses himself accuses himsell, says the proverb. 
Bothwell had tried to account for the catastrophe on the line, and 
in so doing had awakened the coroner’s suspicions. 

After all, these links in a chain of evidence were of the slightest; 
but Edward Heathcote had set iiimseLf to unravel the mystery of the 
nameless dead, and he was determined not to overlook the slenderest 
thread in the web of that dark secret. 

“ Your coufein. Mr. Wyllatd, seemed to have quite recovered from 
the shock ot yesterday evening,” he said, presently. “ 1 never saw 
him looking better than he looked this afternoon.” 

” Wyllaid is a man made of iron,” answered Bothwell,. careless- 
ly. ” i sometimes think there is only one soft spot in his heart, and 
that is his love for my cousin. In that he is distinctly Imman. I 
never saw a more devoted husband. 1 never knew a happier couple. ” 

Bothwell sighed, as if this mention of the happiness of others 
recalled the thought of his own misery. At least it was thus that 
Etiward Heathcote interpreted the sigh. 

Completely absorbed in his own cares, Bothwell had forgotten for 
the moment that he w^as talking to the man whom his cousin had 
jilted in order to marry Julian Wyllard. • The couitship’ and the 
maniage had happened while Bothwell was in the East. It had 
never been more to him than a tradition, and the tritdition was not 
in his mind when he talked of his cousin’s wedded happiness. ' 

” 1 am glad that it is so — very glad,” said EdWard Heathcote, ear- 
nestly. 


WYLLAliD's WEIRD. 


31 


He spoke in all good taith. He Had loved with so unselfish a love 
that the welfare ot his idol had been ever ol more account to him 
than his^ own bliss. He had renounced her without a struggle, since 
her happiness demanded the sacrifice. And she was happy. That 
was ihe grand point. He had paid the price, and he had won the 
reward. He had loved with all hisTieartand strength. He had 
never ceased so to love. That wedded life, which to the outside 
world seemed a lite of quiet domestic happiness, had been on his 
part only a life of resignation. He had married a friendless, penni- 
less girl who loved him— who had betrayed the secret of her love for 
him unawares, in very innocence ot inexperienced girlhood. He had 
taken a helpless girl to his heart and home, because there seemed, 
upon this earth, no other available shelter ’for her; and he had don^ 
his utmost for her happiness. He had succeeded so well that she 
never knew that this thoughtful kindness, wiiich wrapped round her 
as with a balmy atmosphere, this boundless benevolence which shone 
upon her like the sun, was not love. She was one of the happiest of 
women, and one of the proudest wives in the west country, and she 
died blessing Him who had made her life blessed. 

And now the gossips were all full of pity for the widower's loss 
and loneliness — a poor bereaved creature living in a lonely old 
Grange, with a young sister, the twin daughters, just four years old, 
and an ancient maiden lady who looked after the sister, the children 
the house, and the servants;, and in her own person represented the 
genius of thrift, propriety, prudence, wisdom, and all iho domestic 
virtues. People in the neighborhood of Bodmin, and his old friends 
at Plymouth, all thought and talked ot Mr. Heathcote as borne 
down by the weight of his bereavement, and all hoped that he w^ould 
soon marr}^ again. 

The Spaniards lay in a valley between Bodmin Road Station and 
Penmorval. It la}^ on Bothw^elEs road to his cousin’s house, and he 
had thus no excuse for parting company wdth the coroner, had he 
been so inclined. The old wrought-iion gate between gra}*" granite 
pillars, each crowned with the escutcheon of the Heathcotes, stood 
wide open, and the snug rose and myrtle-curtained cottage by the 
gate had as sleepy an air in the summer evening as if it had been a 
lodge at the gate of the Sleeping Beauty’s enchanted domain. Even 
the old trees, tlie great Spanish chestnuts with their masses of foli- 
age, had a look of having outgrown all reason in a century of re- 
pose. No prodigal son had laid the spendthrift's ax to the good 
old trees around the birthplace ot the Heathcotes. There was only 
the extent of a wdde paddock and a lawn betvveea the hall duor and 
tliat grand old gateway, and the house, though subslantial and 
capacious, hardly pretended to Ihe dignity of a mansion. It w^as 
long and low and rambling— a house of many small rooms, queer 
winding passages, innumerable doors and windows, and low. heav- 
ily-tinr&red ceilings, a house in wiiich strange visitors and their 
servants were given to seeing ghosts and hearing unearihly noises of 
gloomy and funereal significance — albeit, the family had jogged on 
quietly enough from geheratioii to generation without any interfer- 
ence from the spirit world. People coming from brand-new houses 
in Earl’s Court or Turnham Green protested that the Spaniards 
must be haunted; and shuddered every time the mice scampered be- 


32 


AA'YLLARD’s weird. 


hifia the paneling or the wind sighed amidst the branches of those 
leafy, towers that girdled lawn and meadow. 

Both well thought that Heathcote would leave him at the gate of 
the ^aniards. 

“ Good-night,” he said, somewhat shortly. 

“I’ll go on to Penmorval with ypu, and hear what impression 
the inquest made upon Wyllard,” said the other. “ It’s not half 
past seven yet — your cousin will be able to spare me a few minutes 
before dinner.” 

Bothwell walked on without a word. Ten minutes brought them 
to the gates of Penmorval, by far the lordlier domain, v ith a his- 
tory that involved noblest traditions. But that ancient race for 
which Penmorval had been built, for whose sous and daughters it 
had grown in grandeur and dignity as the centuries rolled along— of 
them there remained no more than the echo of a vanished renown — 
they were gone, verily like a tale that is told, and the farmnii 
banker, the man who had grown rich by his own intellect and his 
own industry— naturally a very iuterioi personage— reigned in their 
stead. 

Penmorval seemed not quite so dead asleep as Heathcote Grauge, 
alia8 the Spaniards. In the sweet stillness of the summer evening, 
Bothwell and his companion heard voices — women’s voices — famil- 
iar and pleasant to the ears of both. 

Mrs. Wyllard was strolling m the avenue with a young lady by 
her side, a girl in a white gown and a large leghorn hat; tall, slight, 
graceful of form, and fair of face — a girl who gsve a little cry of 
pleased surprise at seeing Heathcote. 

“ 1 was just rushing home, Edward,” she said, “ tor fear I should 
keep you waiting for dinner.” 

“ Indeed, Hilda. Then 1 can only say that your idea of rushing 
is my idea of sauntering,” her brother answered, srtiling at the 
girlish face as he shook hands with Mrs. Wyllard. 

“ What did Mr, Wyllard think of the inquest?” he asked. “ You 
have seen him, 1 suppose?” 

“ Only for a minute as he drove by to the house, while Hilda and 
1 were walking in the avenue. Why, Bothwell, how tagged and 
ill you look,” exclaimed Mrs. Wyllard, looking at her cousin. 

” Only bored,” answered Bothwell, which was not compliment- 
ary to the companion of his long w^alk. 

“But you look positively exhausted, poor fellow,” pursued 
Dora, pityin::ly. “ Why didn’t you come back in the dog-cart? There 
was room for you.” 

“ 1 wanted to be alone.” 

And 1 wanted company,” said Heathcote, laughing: “ so 1 in- 
flicted my society upon an unwilling companion. V'ery bad man- 
ners, no doubt.” 

“ 1 am afraid you got the worst of the bargain,” muttered Both- 
well, with a sullen look, at which Hilda’s blue eyes opened wide 
with wonder. 

“ Do you know, Mr. Heathcote, an idle life does not agree with 
my cousin,” said Dora. “ I never know what it is to be weary of 
Penmorval or the country round, but for the last three or four 
weeks Bothwell has behaved as if he hated the place, and could find 


wyllard's weird. 33 

neither rest nor amusement within twenty miles of us. He is per- 
petually moving ott to Plymouth or to London.” 

“ 1 wish women would take to reading their dictionaries instead 
ot cramming their heads with other women’s novels,” exclaimed 
Bothwell, savagely, ” for then, perhaps, they might have some idea 
of the meaning of words. When you say 1 run up to London per- 
petually, Dora, 1 suppose you mean that I have been there twice — on 
urgent business, by the way — within the last five weeks.” 

” And to Plymouth at least a dozen times,” protested Dora. 

All I can say is that you are my idea of perpetual motion.” 

” I know you are hardly ever at home, Mr. Grahame,” said Hilda, 
backing up her friend. 

They strolled toward the house as they talked, and halfway along 
the avenue they met the master of Penmorval, correctly attired in 
sober evening dress, with a light overcoat worn loosely above his 
faultless black. 

” How do you do, Heathcote? Do you know, Dora, that it is ten 
minutes to eight? You’ll stop and dine with us, of course,” added 
Julian Wyllard, cordially. “ You refused last night, but now Hilda 
is here, and you have no excuse for going home.” 

” 1 only came to afternoon tea,” said Hilda. 

” And you and my wife have been gossiping from five o’clock 
until now. Deepest mystery of social life, what two women can 
find to talk about for three mortal hours in the depth of a rural se- 
clusion like this!” 

“ A mystery to a man, who can not imagine that women either 
think or read,” retoited Dora, taking her husband’s arm. “You 
men have a fixed idea that your wives and sisters have only two sub- 
jects of conversation, gowns and servants. Of coursd you will stay 
and dine, Mr. Heathcote. I am not going to dress for dinner, so 
please don’t look at your froclc-coat as if that were an insuperable 
obstacle. You and "Hilda are going to stop, whether you like it or 
not.” 

“You know we always like to be here,” said Hilda, in her low, 
sweet voice. 

{She stole a little shy look at Bothwell, as it wondering what he 
thought of the matter; but Bothwell’s countenance was inscrutable. 

Hilda was pained but not surprised by his manner. He had 
changed to her so strangely within the last few months — he who 
half a year ago had been so kind, so attentive. She was not angry 
— she was not vain enough to wonder that a man should begin by 
caring tor her a little, and then leave otf caring all at once, and re- 
lapse into absolute indifference. She supposed that such fickleness 
was a common attribute of the superior sex. 

They all wept to the house, and through a glass door into the 
large low drawing room, where the butler immediately announced 
dinner. The two ladies had only time to take oft their hats before 
they went into the dining-room. They were both in white, and 
there was a grace in Dora Wyllard’s simple gown, a cluster of roses 
half hidden by the folds of an Indian muslin fichu, a swan-like 
throat rising from a haze of delicate lace, which was more attract- 
ive than the costliest toilet ever imported from Paris to be the won- 
kier of a court ball. Yes, slie was still, of all women Edward Heath- 
2 


34 


wyllard's weird. 


cote had ever known, the most gracious, the most beautilul. Those 
seven years ot a liappy, married life had ripened her beauty, had 
given a shade of thoughtlulness to the matron’s dark eyes, the low,, 
wide brow, tlie perfect mouth, but had not robbed the noble coun- 
tenance of a single charm. The face of the wife was nobler than 
the face of the girl. It was the face of a woman who lived for 
another rather than for her own happiness, the lace of a woman 
superior to all feminine frivolity, and yet in all things most 
womanly. 

Edward Heathcote sighed within himself as he took his place be- 
side his hostess in the subdued light of the old paneled room, a 
warm light from lamps that hung lovr on the table, under rose-col- 
ored shades, umbrella shaped, spreading a luminous glow over sil- 
ver and glass and flowers, and leaving the faces of the guests some- 
what in shadow. He sighed as he thought how sweet life would 
have been for him had this woman remained true to her first love. 
For she had loved him once. Eight years ago they two had clasped 
hands, touched lips, as afiianced lovers. He could never forget 
what she had beeu to him, or what she might have been. He sat at 
her husband’s table in all loyalty ot soul, in stanch friendship. 
He would have cut his heart out rather than debase himself or 
Dora by one guilty thought. Yet he could but remember these 
things had been. 

The two ladies left almost immediately after dinner, and Both- 
w'ell sauntered out into the garden diiectly afterward. Not to rejoin 
them, as he would have done a few months ago, but to smoke the 
cigar of solitude in a walk beside a crumbling old red wall, and a 
long narrow border of hollybocks^ tall, gigantic, j^ellow, and crim- 
son, and while, and pink. There were iinit trees on the other side 
of the wall, which was supported with tremendous buttresses at in- 
tervals of twenty feet or so, and about wall and buttresses climbed 
clematis and p&ssion flower, jasmine, yellow and white, and the 
great crimson trumpets of the bigonia. 

The banker and the lawyer sat silently for a few minutes, Julian 
Wyllard occupied in the choice of a cigar frcmi a case which he had 
first offered to his guest, and then Edward Heathcote asked him 
what he thought of the inquest. 

“ I thought it altogether unsatisfactory,” answered Wyllard. 
“ You did your best to thrash out a few tacts, but those fools of 
railway people had nothing to tell worth hearing. . Everybody 
knows that the poor creature fell off the train— or was thrown off. 
What we want to find out is whether there was foul play in the 
business.” 

“ It is my belief that there was,” said Heathcote, looking at him 
fixedl\^ in the dim, difficult light, almost as unsalistactofy for such 
a scrutiny as the changeful glow of the fire. 

“ And mine,” answered the banker, “ and so strong is my con- 
viction upon tliis point that 1 stopped at the post-office on my way 
home and telegraphed to my old friend George Dislin, asking him 
to come dowm and help us to solve the mystery.” 

“ Do you mean the famous criminal lawyer?” 

“ Whom else should 1 mean? He and f were school-fellows. I 


WYLLARD’s VrEIRD. 35 

have asked him to stop at Penmorval while he carries on his inves- 
tigation/^ 


CHAPTER 111. 

GEORGE DISTIN 

Mrs. Wyllard was surprised and even horrified when on the 
morning after ihe inquest, her husband told her that he had invited 
Mr. Distin, the criminal lawyer, to stay at Penmorval,. while he 
investigated this mystery of the nameless gir/^ death. The pres- 
ence of such a man beneath her roof seemed to her like a pollution 
of that happy home. 

“ My dear Dora, what a delightful embodiment of provincial sim- 
plicity you show yourself in this business,” said her husband, laugh- 
ingly. ‘‘ 1 believe you confound the lawyer w^ho practices in the 
criminal courts with the police agent you have read about in 
French novels. A man of low birth and education, with nothing 
but his native wit to recommend him— a man whose chief talent is 
for disguises, and who passes his life in a false beard and eye- 
brows, in the company of thieves and murderers whom it is liis 
business to make friends with and then' betray. George Distin is a 
solici'.or of long standing, whose chief practice happens to be in the 
Old Bailey. He is a most accomplished gentleman and the friend 
of princes.” 

” He is .your friend, Julian, so 1 ought not for a moment to have 
doubt'ed that he is a gentleman,” answered Dora, sweetly, with her 
hand resting on her husband’s shoulder. Such a lovely hand, with 
long, tapering fingers, and dimples where other people have 
knuckles, like a hand in an old Bolognese picture. ” Still, 1 wish 
with all my heart that he were going to stay at the hotel. 1 don’t 
want you to be 'involved in this terrible business. M'hy should you 
concern yourself about it, Julian? Nothing you can do can be of use 
to the poor dead girl. What is it all to you? What have you to do 
with it?” 

‘‘ My duty,” answered Wyllard, firmly. As a magistrate! am 
bound to see that a terrible crime— if crime it be— shall not go un- 
punished in my district. I have no particular aptitude in unravel- 
ing mysteries. I therefore send for my old school-fellow, who has 
won his reputation among the sinuous ways of crime.” 

” Ah, I remember. You and Mr. Distin were together at Marl- 
borough,” said Dora, musingly. ” That is enough to make him an 
interesting person in my mind.” 

” Yes, we were companions and rivals, in the same form,” an- 
swered Julian. ” There were some who thought us two the sharpest 
lads in the school. In ail our studies we were neck and neck: but 
in other points the difierence between us was a wide one. Distin 
was the son of a rich London solicitor, an only son, who could draw 
upon an indulgent father for means to gratify every' whim, who had 
his clothes made by a fashionable tailor, and could afford to hire a 
hunter whenever he got the chance of riding one. 1 was one of 
many children— the fourth son of a Warwickshire parson, so 1 had 
to reckon my cash by sixpences, and to wear my clothes till they 


36 


avyllard's weird. 


were threadbare. Yes, there was an awful gulf between Distin and 
me in those days— the impassable abyss that yawns between wealth 
and poverty.’’ 

“ And now you must be a great deal richer than he, and you can 
receive him in this lovely old place.” 

“ There will be some piide in that. Yes, Dora, fortune was at 
home to me when 1 knocked at her door. 1 have been what is 
called a lucky man.” 

” And you are a happy one, 1 hope,” murmured his wite, nest- 
ling her head in his breast, as he stood before the open window, look- 
ing dreamily out at summer woods. 

“ Inetf ably happy, sweet one, in having won you,” he answered,, 
tenderly, kissing the fair broad brow. 

‘‘ You must have been wonderfully clever,” said Dora, enthusi- 
astically, “ beginning without any capital, and within five-and- 
twenty y^ears making yourself the head of a great banking house.” 

” 1 was fortunate in my enterprises when 1 was a young man,, 
and 1 lived at a time when fortunes were made— and lost— rapidly. 
1 may have had a longer head than some of my compeers; at any 
rate, 1 was cooler-headed than the majority of them, and 1 kept out 
of rotten schemes.” 

” Or got out of them before they collapsed,” perhaps Mr. Wyl- 
lard might have said, had he displayed an exhaustive candor. 

But in talking of business matters to a woman, a man is apt to 
keep something in the background. 

So after a good deal more discursive talk between husband snd 
wife, it was agreed that Mr. Distin’s visit was not to be regarded as 
an affliction. A telegram arrived while Mr, and Mrs. Wyllard were 
talking, announcing the lawyer’s ariival by the same train which 
had carried the nameless waif to her grave in the valley, the train 
arriving at Bodmin Koad at a quarter before eight. The dog-cait 
was to meet the guest, and dinner was to be deferred till nine 
o’clock for his accommodation. 

” You can send a line to Ileathcote and ask him to dine with us 
to-night,” said Wyllard. ‘‘ 1 know he is desperately interested in 
the business, and would like to meet Distin.” 

” And Hilda— you won’t mind having Hilda?” 

INot in the least. Hilda is an ornament to any gentleman’s ta- 
ble But how fond you have become of Hilda lately!” 

” 1 was always fond of her. Do you know, there is something 
that puzzles me very much?” 

“Indeed.” 

“ A tew months ago 1 thought Bothwell was in love with Hilda. 
He seemed devoted to her, and was alw\ays asking me to have her 
over here. 1 was rejoicing at the idea of the poor fellow' getting 
such a sw'cet girl for his v/ife, for 1 thought Hilda rather liked liim, 
when all at once he cooled, and appeared actually to go out of the 
way in order to avoid her. Strange, was it not?” 

“ The fickleness of an idle mind, no doubt,” answered Wyllard, 
carelessly. 

He bad not bis wife’s keen interest in the joys and sorrow^s of 
other people. He was said to be a kind-hearted man. He was good 
to the poor in a large way, and never drew his purse-strings against 


wyllaed’s weikd. 


37 


the appeal ot mistortune. But he could not be worried about the 
details of other people’s lives. He did not care a straw whether 
Both well was or was not in love with Hilda. To his wife, on the 
contrary, the question was vital, involving the happiness of two peo- 
ple whom she loved. ♦ 

“If your cousin does not put his shoulder to the wheel before 
long, he will fall intd a very bad way,” said Wyllard, decisively. 

“ He would be very glad to do it. If he only knew what wheel to 
shoulder,” said Bothwell’s voice outside, as he sauntered to the win- 
dow, wafting aside the pale smoke of his cigarette. 

ll seemed to Dora as if her cousin spent his home life in smoking 
cigarettes and sauntering in the gardens, where, on his energetic 
days, he helped her in her war ot extermination against the green- 
fly. 

“ There is always a wheel to be moved by the. man who is not 
afraid ot work,” said Wyllard. 

“ So 1 am told, but 1 have found no such wheel, as a civilian. 
Seriously, Julian, 1 know that 1 am an idler and a reprobate — that 
1 am taking advantage of your kindness and letting life slip by me, 
just because 1 have the run of my teeth in this fine old place, and 
because you and Dora are worlds too good to me. 1 have been tak- 
ing my own character between my teeth and giving it a good shak- 
ing within the last few days, and 1 mean to turii over a new leaf. 1 
shall go abroad— to the South Seas.” 

“ What are you to do tor a living in the South Seas?” 

“ Something. Sub-edit a colonial paper — keep a grocery store — 
turn parson and convert the nigger. 1 shall fall upon my feet, you 
may be sure. I shall find something to do before 1 have been out 
there long. Or, if the Otaheite won’t give me a roof. and a crust, 

1 can cross to the mainland and drive sheep. Something 1 must do 
for my bread — into the new world 1 must go. The atmosphere of 
the old world is stifling me. 1 feel as it 1 was living in an orcliid 
house.” 

“ No, Bo'thwell, you are not going, to the other end of the world,” 
said Dora, affectionately. “ Y'ou ought not to say such things, Jul- 
ian, making him feel as it he were an intruder, as if he were not 
welcome here — my first cousin— the only companion of my youth 
that remains to me now my dear mother is gone. Surely we who 
are rich need not grudge our kinsman a home.” 

“ My dearest, you ought to know that 1 spoke for BothwelTs 
sake, and from no other motive than my care for his interest,” an- 
swered Julian, gravely. “ A young man without a profession is a 
young man on the big road to perdition.” 

“ 1 believe you with all my soul,” cried Bothwell, with feverish 
energy, “ and 1 shall sail for Otaheite in the first ship that will 
carry me. Not because I do not love you, Dora, but because 1 want « 
to be worthier of your love.” 

He lighted a fresh cigarette, and sauntered away from the win- 
dow, to breath latakia over the John Hoppers and Victor Verdiers 
on the wall. 

Dora’s eyes filled with tears. She was angrier with her husband 
than she had ever been since her marriage. 

“ It is very unkind of you to drive Bothwell out of your house,” 


WYLLARD’S V/EIRD. 


% 

38 

she said, passionately. “You make me rejrret that I have not a 
house oi my own. You forget how tond we have always been of 
«ach other — that he is as dear to me as a brother. ” 

“ It is because I remember that fact that 1 am anxious to stimu- 
late Bothwell to action ot some kind,” answered her husband. “ Do 
you think it is good lor any young man to Jead the kind of lileyour 
cousin leads here?’* 

“ If he were to marry, he would become more industrious, I have 
no doubt,” said Dora. ” Y'ou might pension off old JVlr. Grelton, 
and make Bothwell your land-steward.” 

‘‘Which in Bothwell’s case would mean a genteel dependence, 
under the disguise of a responsible position. Bothwell would be 
seen on every race-course in the west country, would play billiards 
at the Georgo, shoot my game, and let somebody else do my work.” 

“Do you mean that my cousin is a dishonorable man?” asked 
Dora, indignantly. 

” No, dear. 1 mean that he is a man who has spoiled one career 
for himself, and will have to work uncommonly hard in order to 
hud another.” 

This was cruel logic to Dora’s ears. For the first time in her life 
she thought that her husband was ungenerous; and for the first lime 
in her life she reckoiled her own fortune as an element ot power. 
Hitherto she had allowed her rents to be paid into her husband’s 
bank. She had her own check book, and drew whatever money 
she wanted; but she did not even ask what income each year 
brought her, or what surplus was left at the end of the year. She 
had never offered to help Bothwell with money. She had felt that 
any such offer would hiimiliale him. But now she eonudered for 
the first time'that her money must have accumulated to a consider- 
able extent iu her husband’s bank, and that it was in her power to 
assist Bothwell with capital tor any enterprise which he might do-' 
sire to undertake. If he had set his heart upon going to the South 
Sea Islands, he would not start with an empty purse.. 

The train from Paddington came into Bodmin Road Station with 
laudable punctuality, and without mischance of any kind, and the 
dog- cart brought Mr. Distin to Penrnorval before half past eight. 
Dora was in the drawing-room when he arrived. She had dressed 
early in order to be on the spot to welccme her husband’s friend, 
even albeit be came to her with a perfume of the Old Bailey. 

In spite ot Mr. Wyllard’s praiseof his old schoolfellow. Dora bad 
expected a foxy and unpleasant individual, with craft in every feat- 
ure of his face. 

She was agreeably surprised on beholding a good-looking man of 
refined type, with aquiline nose, dark eyes, hair and whiskers in- 
clining to gray, slim, well set up, neat without being dapper or 
priggish— a man who might have been taken for an artist or an au- 
thor just as readily as for a lawyer versed in the dark ways of crime, 

“ My friend Wyllard looks all the better for his rurjil seclusion,” 
«aid Distin, after he had been introduced to Dora. ” He seems to me 
a younger man by ten years than he was when 1 met him in Paris, 
just ten years ago. And that means twenty years to the good, you 
see.” 


39 


wyllard’s weird. 

“ Is it really ten years since you have met?’^ exclaimed Dor^a. 

“ Exactly a decade. Our last nieetin^^ was a chance encounter in 
the Palais Royal, where we ran against each other one day at din- 
ner-ti»ne— both making for Vefour’s, where we dined togetlier, and 
talked over old times. 1 thought that evening my friend looked 
aged and haggard, nervous and worried, and 1 put it down to the 
rulinj; disease of our epoch, high-pressure. But now I hnd him re- 
generated, liloritied by country life. Happy fellow, who can afford 
to enjoy his otium cum digniiate in the very prime of life.” 

“You hear what he says, Dora,” said Wyllard, laugliingly. 
“ Now, 1 dare say what he thinks is: ‘ How can this poor devil en- 
dure his existence out of London— two hundred miles from the 
clubs — fiom the opera house — from the first nights of new plays — the 
crowd of familiar faces?’ 1 know my friend Distin of old, and that 
he could not go on breathing out of London any more than a fish 
can live out of water.” 

“1 like my little London,” admitted Distin -coyly, almost as if 
he were talking of a fascinating w^oman. “ There’s so much in it,, 
and it’s such a devilish wicked place, to those who really know it. 
But 1 think the country a most delightful institution from Satur- 
day to Monday.” 

“ The cockney stands confessed in that one remark,” said Wyl- 
lard, laughing. 

“ That is the worst of Devonshire and Cornwall,” pursued Dis- 
tin in his airy way. “ Charming scenery — eminently picturesque. 
But too far off to be done from Saturday to Monday. But there is 
one ineffable charm in those pretty places up the river, and those 
rustic villages in Kent.” 

“ Pray what is that?” 

“ One is alwuiys so delighted to arrive on Saturday afternoon^ 
and so charmed to leave on Monday morning. The rustic aroma 
just lasts till Sunday night, and the keen craving for town begins 
with the dawn of Monday. But I must go and get rid of two hun- 
dred miles of dust,” said Mr. Distin, slippingofi: as lightly as a boy. 

He lett the diawing-room at twenty minutes to nine, and returned 
at five minutes before the hour in full evening dress. It was al- 
most like a conjuring trick. His costume was of the quietest, yet 
there was a finish and style about everything that impressed even 
the ignorant. One felt that the very latest impress of Fashion’s 
fair fingers had touched that shirt, had meted out the depth of the 
silk collar, the curve of the sleeve. That black pearl center-stud 
might have been the last gift of a prince, or a high-bred woman. 
One ring, and one only, adorned the solicitor’s left hand, but that 
ring was a table diamond, two hundred and forty years old, said to 
have been given by Anne of Austria to the Duke oTf Buckingham. 

Both well, who took some pride in his clothes, looked clumsy and 
unfashionable beside the London lawyer, or at any rate fancied that 
he did. Edward Heathcote was at all times a careless dresser, but 
his lull figure, and a certain dash which was more soldierly than 
civilian, made him an imporlant personage in every circle. He had 
the free grace, the easv movements, of a man who had spent his 
boyhood and youth out-of-doors — hunting, shooting, fishing, mount- 
aineering. 


40 


WYLLARD S WEIRD. 


The dinner was lively, thanks chiefly to George Distin, tor Both- 
well had a dispirited air, and Hilda <JOiild not help feeling unhappy 
at seeing his ^glooiii, though she tried to conceal her sympathy. 
Mr. Wyllard'and Mr. Distin had the conversation to themselves 
during the greater part of the meal, for Mr. Heathcote was graver 
and more reserved than usual, and Dora had a subdued and 
thought! Ill air. She would have been quite ready to admit that 
George Distin w'as a very agreeable person, and altogether worthy 
of her husband’s friendship, but she could not dissociate him from 
the horror of the event which had caused his presence in that house. 
She felt that of those gathered around her table that night, in the 
shaded light of the low lamps, amidst the perfume of the hot-house 
flowers, the greater number were brooding upon a mystery which 
might mean murder. 

She was very glad to escape to the drawing-room with Hilda 
directly dinner was over. 

“And now, I suppose, they will talk of that poor creature’s 
death,” she said. “ Come, Hilda, sing one of your Schubert songs, 
and let us try and forget all that horror.” 

Hilda seated herself at the piano obediently and began “ Mignon.” 
She had a lovely mezzo-soprano, clear aS a bell, ripe, and round, 
and full. The rich notes went pealing up to the low ceiling and 
floated out at the open windows. Perhaps Both well heard them in 
the dining-room, for he came sauntering in presently, and slipped 
quietly into a seat in the most shadowy corner of the room. Hilda 
always sung and played from memory. There was no duty to be 
done in the way of turning over music. 

“ What made you desert the gentlemen. Both well?” asked Mrs. 
Wyllard, when the song was over. 

“ They were talking of that diabolical inquest again. Nobody in 
Bodmin seems able to talk of anything else. Wherever 1 went to- 
day 1 heard the same ghastly talk— every imaginable suggestion, 
and not one grain of common sense. What ghouls people must be 
to gloat over such a subject. No wonder that men who live in 
great cities despise the rustic mind.” 

1 do not find that the inhabitants of cities are any less ghoul- 
ish,” retorted Dora, who felt warmly about her native soil, and 
would have fought for Cornish people and Cornish institutions to 
the death. “ See how the London papers gloat over the details of a 
murder.” 

These three spent the evening very quietly In the drawing-room, 
\vhile the three men in the dining-room were discussing the event 
on the railway. 

Hilda sung three or four of Mrs. Wyllard’s favorite songs, while 
her hostess sat in the lamplight by an open window working at a 
group of monster sunflowers on a ground of olive plush. Bothwell 
kept in his shadowy corner all the evening, so quiet that he might 
have been asleep, save that he murmured a “Thank you, Miss 
Heathcote, very lovely,” after one of Hilda’s songs. She thought 
that he was only grateful for having had his slumbers soothed by a 
vague strain of melody. 

The men in the dining-room had turned away from the lighted 
table, and were silting in a little knot in the embrasure of the wide 


WYLLAllD S WEIRD. 


41 


Tudor window, smoking their cigars, half in the ruddy glow of the 
lamps and halt in the mellow tight of the newly-risen moon. They 
could hardly see each other’s faces in that uncertain light. Stod- 
den, the butler, had wheeled a table over to the window and ar^ 
ranged the claret-jugs and glasses upon it before he left the room. 
The little knot of men smoking and drinking by the window looked 
a picture of comfort, with the soft sweet air blowing in from 
the garden, and the great full moon shining over the roses, and the 
fountain in the old-fashioned Italian George Disl in’s keen 
eye noted every detail of his friend’s surroundings, and he told 
himself that, for the fourth son of a village vicar, Julian Wyllard 
had done remarkably well. 

Between them Wyllard and the coroner had contrived to put the 
London lawyer in full possession of the facts relating to the girl’s 
death. Those facts were unfortunately of the scantiest. Edward 
Heathcote breathed no hint of that dark suspicion about Both well 
which had flashed into his mind after the inguest, and which he 
had vainly endeavored to shake oft since that time. Both well’s 
manner at dinner this evening had not been calculated to disarm 
suspicion. His moody brow, his silence and abstraction, were the 
unmistakable signs of secret trouble of some kind. That trouble 
was coincidental in time with the event of the railwa}^: for Heath- 
cote and Bothwell had met in Bodmin, and had ridden home to- 
gether on the previous day, and the young man had been cheery 
enough. 

“ The ticket found upon the girl was from London to Plymouth,. 
1 apprehend?” said Mr. Distin, when he had heard everything. 

“Yes.” 

” Then she started from Paddington that morning. My business 
will be to find out who she was, and the motive of her journey.” 

“ And do you think there is a possibility of tracing her in London 
— without a shred of evidence— except the photograph of a dead 
face?” exclaimed Wyllard. ” To my mind it seems like looking 
in a brook for a bubble that broke there a week ago. ’ ’ 

” As a west-countryman you should remember how the otter- 
hounds hunt the bead on the water,” answered Distin. ” With a 
photograph the police ought to be able to trace that girl— even in 
the wilderness of London.” 

“ But if she were a foreigner, and only passed through London ?”' 
suggested Wyllard. 

” Even then she would leave her bead, like 'the otter. She could 
not get a night’s shelter without some one knowing of her coming 
and going. Unless she slept in the lowest form of lodging-house — 
a place through which the herd of stranae faces are always passing 
— the probabilities are in favor of her face 'being remembered.” 

“Judging by the neatness of her clothes and the refinement ot 
her features, she must have been the last person likely to set foot in 
a common lodging-house,” said Heathcote. “But there was no 
money found upon her — neither purse, nor papers of any kind.” 

“ That fact is to me almost conclusive,” said Distin. 

“ Upon what point?” 

“ It convinces me that she was made awa}^ with.” 


42 wyllard’s weird. 

“ Indeed,” exclaimed Wyllard, much surprised, “ the thing never 
occurred to me in that light.” 

” Naturally, my dear friend. You have not devoted twenty years 
of your life to the study of the criminal mind,” answered tlie law- 
yer, easily. ” Don’t you see that the first thought of a man who 
made up his mind to throw a girl out of a train — unless he did the 
act in a blind fuiy which gave him no time for thought of any kind 
— his first piecaution, 1 say, would be to see that there was no evi- 
dence of her identity upon her, more especially where the victim was 
a stranger in the land, as this poor thing was. The identification 
of the victim is often half-way toward the identification of the mur- 
derer. But if the dead can be buried unrecognized — a nameless, 
unknown waif, in wliose fate no private individual is interested — 
why, after the funeral the murderer may take his ease and be merry, 
assured that he will hear no more of the matter. Public interest in 
a mysterious crime of that kind soon dies out.” 

“ And you think that this poor girl w^as the victim of a crime?” 
asked the coroner, surprised to find his own idea shared by the great 
authority. 

“ In my own mind, I have no doubt she was murdered.” 

“ But why should she not have committed suicide?” 

“ Why should she have traveled from London to Cornwall in 
order to throw herself over that particular embanKment?” demanded 
Distin. “ An unnecessary luxury, where there were the Holborn 
Viaduct and a score of bridges at her service, to say ifothing of the 
more natural exit by her own bedroom window. Besides, in the 
statistics of self-murder you will find that nineteen out of twenty 
suicides — nay, 1 might almost say ninety-nine out of a hundred — 
leave a piteous little note explaining the motive of the deed — an ap- 
peal to posterity, as it were. ‘ See how great a sufferer 1 have been, 
and what a heroic end lhave made.' No; there is only one suppo- 
sition that would admit of this girl being her own destroyer. Some 
ruffian in the train might have so scared her that she flung herself 
out in a frantic effort to escape from him. But against this possi- 
bility there is the fact of the absence of any purse or papers. She 
could not have been traveling that distance without, at least, a few 
shillings in her possession.” 

“'Who knows?” said Julian Wyllard. “Very narrow are the 
straits of genteel poverty. It, as 1 suppose, she was a poor little 
nursery governess going to her situation, she may have had just 
money enough to pay for her railway ticket, and no more. She 
may have relied upon her employers naeeting her at the station with 
a conveyance” 

“ If she were a nurseiy governess, due at some country house on 
that day, surely her employers would have communicated with the 
Bodmin police before now,” said Distin. 

“ News finds its way slowly to sleepy old houses in remote dis- 
tricts oft the railway,” replied Wyllard. “There are people still 
living in Cornwall who depend upon a weekly paper for all news 
of the outer world.” 

“ If the poor girl were going to such benighted wretches, let us 
hope they will wake in a day or two, and enlighten us about her,” 
said Distin. “ And now to be distinctly practical, and to tell you 


wyllard’s weird. 


43 


what I am ^oing to do. Mr. Heatl* cote’s carriage was announced 
nearl}'^ an hour ago, and 1 saw him looking at his watch just now.” 

“ 1 was only uneasy about Mrs. Wyllarcl and my sister. We are 
keeping them up rather late,” said the coroner, apologetically. 

“ Dora won’t mind. She loves the tranquillity ot midnight,” re- 
plied Wyllard. “ Go on, Distin. What is your plan?” 

” Your adjourned inquest does not come on for nearly a fort- 
I night,” said Distin. “ Now, you can’t expect me to waste all that 
i time in Cornwall— delicious as it would be to dream away existence 
i among the roses ot that delightful garden— so the best thing 1 can 
do is to run up to London to-morrow morning,” — he spoke as if l\e 
were at Maidenhead or Marlow — ” find out all 1 can tliere, and 
return here in time for the coroner’s next sitting, by which time.” 
added the specialist, cheerily, I hope we shall have got up a pivtly 
little case tor the public prosecutor. Mr. fleathcote will kindly 
keep me informed of any new details that crop up here. 1 shall 
have the poor little girl’s photograph in my pocket-book. Y’ou’ll 
send a messenger to your town early to morrow morning, Wyllard, 
and tell the photographer to meet me at the station with his photo- 
graphs of the dead girl? He ought to have them ready by 'that 
time.” 

”1 will give the order to-night,” said Wyllard; and then the 
three men repaired to the drawing-room. 

” 1 have been very happy here,” said Hilda to her brother; “ but 
1 thouirht you were never coming for me. Mrs. Wyllard must be 
dreadfully tired.” 

“ Never tired of your company, Hilds,'” inter jected Dora ; “ nor 
of Schubert.” 

“ And as for Mr. Grahame, he has been asleep ever since dinner.” 

“ That is a baseless calumny, Miss Ileathcote. 1 have not lost a 
note of your songs. 1 am told that Schubert was rather a low per- 
son — convivial, that is to say— somewhat Bohemian— fond of tav- 
erns and tavern company. But 1 will maintain there must have 
been a pure and beautiful soul in the man who wrote such songs as 
those.” 

“ I am so glad you like them,” answered Hilda, brightening at 
his praise. “ 1 dare say you often heard them in India.” 

“No; the people I knew in India had not such good taste as 
you.” 

“But in a country like that where ladies have so little to do 
music must be such a resource,” persisted Hilda, who was curi- 
ously interested in Mr. Grahame’s Indian experiences. 

Blie was always wondering what his life had been like in that 
strange distant world, what kind of people he had known there. 
She wondered all the more, perhaps, on account ot Both well’s reti- 
cence. She could never get him to talk freely of his Indian days, 
and this gave the whole thing an air of mystery; 

The clock in the great gray pile of stabling was striking twelve 
as the coroner’s carriage drove away. 

“ 1 can not think what has happened to Mr. Grahame,” said 
Hilda. .“He used to be so lively, and now he is so dull.” 

“ The change is palpable to others, then, as well as to me,” 
thought Heathcote. ‘ ‘ Whatever the cause may be, there is a change. 


44 


wyllaed’s weied. 


God help him if my fear is well grounded. If 1 were a criminal 1 
would as soon have a sleuth-hound on my track as George Gistin.” 

Mr. Distin was on his way to London before noon next day, 
curled up in a corner of a coupe, looing out eagerly at every station 
for the morning papers. He had the dead girl’s photographs — full- 
face, profile — in his letter-case. On making his adieux at Penmorval 
he declared that he thoroughly enjoyed his little run into the coun- 
try, his night in the fresh air. 

So delicious to wake at six — my usual hour — and smell your 
roses and hear your fountain,” he said. ” 1 look forward with de- 
light to my return the week after next.” 

During the interval which occurred between Mr. Distin’s depart- 
ure and the adjourned inquest, Edward Heathcote gave himself up 
to his usual avocations, and took no further trouble to fathohi the 
mystery of the stranger’s untimely fate. After all, he told himself, 
after much brooding upon a subject that troubled him greatly, it was 
not for him to solve the problem. He was not the public prosecutor, 
nor was he a detective, nor even a criminal lawyer, like Geoige Dis- 
tin. ' His business was to hear what other people had to say, not to 
hunt up evidence against anybody. His duty began when he took 
his seat at an inquest, and ended when he left it. Why then should 
he vex his mind with dark suspicions against a man who was the 
near kinsman, the adopted brother, of that woman for whose sake 
or for w^hose happiness he would have gladly diedv 

This was how Edward Heathcote argued with himself, and it was 
in pursuance of this conclusion that he gave himself up to a life of 
idleness during the twelve days that succeeded Mr. Distin ’s depart- 
ure. He went for long rides in the early mornings, he drove with 
his sister and the twins in the afternoon. He appeared at two 
archery meetings, and three tennis parties, a most unusual concession 
to the claims of society, and he dawdled away the rest of his ex- 
istence reading the last new books in English, French, and German, 
and discussing them with Hilda’s duenna, Theresa Meyerstein, a 
curious specimen of the German friiiilein, intensely domestic, and 
yet deeply learned— a woman able to turn from Schopenhauer to 
strawberry jam, from Plato to plum-pudding— a woman who knew 
every theory that had ever been started upon the mind and its func- 
tions, and who could tell to a hundredweight how much coal ought 
to be consumed in a gentleman’s household. Mr. Heathcote had dis- 
covered this paragon of domesticity and erudition, acting as deputy- 
manager at a pension at Baden, during the first year of his widow- 
hood, and he brought her away from the white-slavery and the 
scanty remuneration of that institution to the luxury of an English 
country house and the certainty of a liberal recompense for her 
labors. Fraulein Meyerstein rewarded her employer by a most 
thorough fidelity, and adored Hilda and the twin daughters. Her 
soul had languished in a chilling atmospheie for lack of something 
to love, and she lavished the garnered treasures of long years upon 
these Cornish damsels who were committed to her care. 

More than once during these long summer days Hilda urged the 
necessity of calling at Penmorval; but her brother told her she could 
go alone, or take the fraulein, who dearly loved a drive and a gos- 


WYLLARD’S 'VVEIRI). 


45 


sip over a cup of tea, and who was always kindly received by Mrs. 
Wyllard, in spite of her short petticoats, anatomical bools, and Teu- 
tonic bonnets. 

“ You can perform those small civilities without any assistance 
from me," said Heathcote. “ITou women are so tremendously 
posted in the details of etiquette. Now, it would never have oc- 
curred to me that because we dined at Penmorval a few nights ago, 
we were strenuously bound to call upon Mrs. Wyllard before the 
end of the week. 1 thought that with friends of long standing those 
Draconic laws were a dead letter." 

“ 1 don’t mean to say that we need be ceremonious, Edward," an- 
swered Hilda, "but 1 am sure Mrs. W 3 dlard will expect to see us. 
^he will think we are forgetting her if we don’t go." 

" Then you go, dear, and let her see that you are not forgetful, 
whatever 1 may be," said Heathcote. 

He had a horror ot entering that house of Penmorval just now, 
lest he should see or hear something that would give him new cause 
for suspecting Both well He had a feeling that he could only cross 
that threshold as the bringer of evil; and it would be a bitter thing 
for him to carry evil into her home for whose peixe he had pra 3 ^ed. 
night and morninjr for the last eight years. 

So Hilda drove her ponies up the hill to Penmorval, and Miss 
Meyerstein sat beside her in all the glory of her new bonnet, 
sent from Munich by a relative, and reported as the very latest fash- 
ion in that city. Unhappily for the success of the Ibonnet in Corn- 
Wall, Bodmin fashions and Munich fashions were wide as the poles 
asunder. Bodmin boasted a milliner who took the fashion mag- 
azines, and beguiled her clients with the idea that everything she 
made from them was Parisian. The Bodmin milliner had a heavy 
hand, and laid on feathers and flowers as if with a trowel ; but her 
bonnets and hats were light as thistle-down in comparison with the 
art of Bavaria. 

It was the afternoon of the adjourned inquest, and Mr. Distin 
was on the scene, ready to watch the inquiry. He had arrived at 
Penmorval in time for breakfast, after traveling all night. 

" Such a good way of getting rid of the night," he said, as he dis- 
cussed a salmi of trout, caught in the stream that traversed Pen- 
raorval Park. 

Alone in the library with Julian Wyllard, after breakfast, the 
London lawyer confessed that for once in his life he had been prett\' 
nearly beaten. He had shown the photographs of the dead face to 
two of the cleverest detectives in London — had set one to work in the 
east and the other in the west — promising a liberal reward for any 
valuable information; and nothing had come of their lalDors. One 
had tried every lodging-house within a certain radius of Padding- 
ton. The other had explored the neighborhood of London Bridge 
Station, and failing there had come as far west as Charing Cross. 
The ground had been thoroughly beaten, and no likely place had 
been forgotten in which a stranger of this girl’s class could flud 
shelter. 

" She might have gone to the house of friends," suggested W 3 ^K 
lard. 


46 


wyllard's weird. 


If she had friends in London — were they ever such slight ac- 
quaintances even — they would have been heard of before now,” 
argued Distin. “1 take it that she was unknown to a mortal on 
this side of the Channel, except the man who murdered her, and 
who had no doubt some very powerful motive for wanting to get 
rid of her.” 

” What do you suppose that motive to have been?” 

“My dear Wyllard, what a question for a clever man to ask!” 
exclaimed the lawyer, with a shade of contempt. ” To speculate 
upon the motive 1 must have some knowledge of the man, and of 
this girl’s murderer 1 know nothing. If 1 could once find the man 
1 should soon find the motive. Such a murder as this generally 
means the breaking of some legal tie that has become onerous, some 
bond which death alone can loosen.” 


CHAPTER IV. 

BOTHWELL DECLINES TO ANSWER. 

The room at the Vital Spark was filled to overflowing on the oc- 
casion of the adjourned inquiry. At the previous examination only 
the inhabitants of Bodmin and its immediate neighborhood had been 
present; but on this second afternoon people had come from long 
distances, and there was not standing room for the audience, 
which filled the passage, and waited with strained ears to catch a. 
stray word now and then through the open door. 

The idea of a profound mystery — of a dastardly crime— had been 
fostered in the local mind by the newspapers, which had harped 
upon the ghastly theme, and gloated over the particulars of the 
nameless girl's fate in paragraphs and leaderettes ad nauseam. 
Articles headed, “More details concerning the Bodmin mj^stery,” 
“ Further particulars about the strange death on the railway,” had 
served as the salt to give savor to cut and dried paragraphs airout the 
harvest, the markets, and those small offenders whose peccadilloes 
furnish the material for justice to work upon at petty sessions. 

Everyone had read about that strange death of a lonely girl in the 
summer sunset. Every one was interested in a fate so melancholy 
— an abandonment so inexplicable. 

“1 thought that there was hardly ever a human being so isolated 
as to be cared for and owned by no one,” said the curate of Wade- 
bridge. “ Yet it would seem that this poor girl had no one to care 
for her in life, or to identify her after death. If she had one friend 
living in England or France, surely that person must have made 
some sign before now.” 

“People in France are very slow to hear about anything that 
happens in England,” replied Dr. Menheniot, to whom the curate 
had been talkine:. 

“But 1 heard Mr. Heathcote, at the first inquiry, say that he 
meant to advertise in a Parisian newspaper.” 

“Then be sure the advertisement appeared,” answered Men- 
heniot. “ Heathcote is one of those few men with whom meaning 
and doing are the same thing.” 


47 


wyllard’s weird. 

The inquiry drag^jed its slow length along, and hardly one new 
tact was elicited. There was a great deal ot repetition, in spile ot 
the coroner’s attempt to keep all his witnesses to the point in their 
evidence. Mr. Distin sat near the coroner, and asked a few ques- 
tions of two or three of the witnesses, and though he elicited no 
actually new facts, he seemed to put things in a clearer light by his 
cross-examination. 

Just before the close of the inquiry, he said — 

“1 see Mr. Grahame, ot Penmorval, is here this afternoon. 1 
should like to ask him a question or two, if you have no objection. 

I’he coroner paled ever so slightly at this suggestion, but he had 
no objection to offer, so Bothwell Grahame was asked to come up 
to the table, and kiss the book, which he did with a somewhat be- 
wildered air, as if the thing came upon him as an unpleasant sur- 
prise. 

“ You were in the train that evening, I believe, Mr. Grahame?** 
said Distin. 

"‘Iwas.” 

“ And you saw this girl fall?** 

“1 saw her fall — but as 1 saw just a little less than Dr. Menheniot 
and the guard saw, 1 don’t see the good of my being questioned,** 
answered Bothwell, with rather a sullen air. 

“ 1 beg your pardon,’* returned Mr. Distin, suavely, “ every wit- 
ness sees an event from a different point of view. You may have 
noticed something which escaped the two witnesses we have just 
heard.** 

“ I noticed nothing more than you have been told by these two, 
and 1 saw less than they saw. 1 did not look out of the window 
till 1 heard the girl’s shrfek, and 1 saw her in the act of falling.** 

“ Good. But you may have observed this solitary girl— a foreign- 
er, and therefore more noticeable — on the platform at Plymouth. 
You were on the platform at Plymouth, you know.” 

” Of course, 1 was. But 1 did not see the girl at the station.” 

“Strange that she should have escaped your observation, al- 
though the porter who was busy with his duties had time to notice 
her,” said Mr. Distin. 

“ Would it surprise you to hear that during the four or five min- 
utes 1 spent in the station before the train started 1 was standing at 
the bookstall buying papers, with my back to the platform?” 

“ That would account for your not having seen this noticeable 
young stranger. You w^ere in Plymouth for several hours, 1 be- 
lieve, Mr. Grahame?” 

“ I was; but upon my word 1 don't see what bearing that fact can 
have upon this inquiry.” 

“ Perhaps not. Still you will not object to tell us what you were 
doing in Plymouth— how you disposed of your time there.” 

This question evidently troubled Bothwell, simple as it was, and 
easy as it ought to have been to answer. 

“ 1 played a game at biWiards at the Duke of Cornwall,” he said. 

“ 1 am sure you are too good a player for that to occupy more 
than half an hour,” said Mr. Distin, with his silky air, as if lie were 
employed in a very pleasant business,' and were bent upon being as 
cheery as possible. 


48 


wyllard’s weird. 


“ 1 had to wait for the table.” 

” Come, now, Mr. Grahame, don’t you be mysterious about sa 
simple a matter,” exclaimed Mr. Distiii. ‘‘You don’t mean to tell 
us that you went to Plymouth by the 12:15 train ”— he bad iiscer- 
tained this fact before the inc^uiry began — ” and spent the whole of 
the day there in order to play a ajanie at billiards in a public bill- 
iard-room? Y'ou must have had other business in Plymouth.” 

“ Certainly 1 had other business there.” 

‘^Will you kindly tell us what that business was?” 

“As it concerned others besides myself, and as it has not the 
faintest bearing upon this case, 1 must decline to answer that ques- 
tion.” 

“ Really, now, 1 should advise you to be more frank. You leave 
Bodmiri early in the day—without giving any notice of your depart- 
ure — and you return late in the evening. A most mysterious catas- 
trophe occurs on the train which brings ypu home — a death so 
strange, so horrible, that it casts a cloud over all the passengers 
traveling by that train — leaves a stigma upon all, as it were, until 
the guilt of that deed is brought home to one. Surely under such 
circumstances the utmost frankness is desirable. Every traveler in 
that train should be ready to answer any question which those who 
are charged with the elucidation of this mystery may ask.” 

“ 1 have answered your questions as to what occurred to me in 
the train and at the station, but 1 decline to be catechised about my 
business in Plymouth,” answered Bothwell, doggedly. 

“ That will do,” said Mr. Distin; and Bothwell w’ent to his seat 
next Julian Wyllard, whose handsome presence appeared in the 
front rank of spectators, amongst tho^eof i\xQ elite were favored 
with chairs, while the commonalty stood in a mob at the back of 
the room. 

The audience had been breathless during this examination of 
Bothwell Grahame. The young man’s sunburnt face was clouded 
with anger, his dark strongly-marked brows were scowling over 
thos(» gray-blue eyes w^hich once had such a pleasant expression. 

1 can’t think what has come to Grahame,” muttered a sporting 
squire to his next neighbor. “He used to be such a pleasant fel- 
low, but to day he looks like a murderer.” 

“ You— -you don’t think he threw the girl out of the train, do 
you?” asked the other. 

“ God torbid! But by that London laywer’s questions one would 
think he suspected Grahame of having had a hand in the business.’^ 

The jury gave their verdict presently — “ Death from misadvent- 
ure.” 

“Tell Dora not to expect me at dinner,” said Bothwell to Mr. 
Wyllard, betore they lelt the inn. “ 1 shall dine in Bodmin.” 

“ Have 5 ^ou any engagement?” 

“ Ho, but 1 can easily make one. 1 am not going to break bread 
with your lawyer friend. So long as he is at Penmorval I shall be 
missing.” 

“ My dear Bothwell, you have no right to be angry at a simple 
question which you might have so easily answered,” remonstrated 
Julian W 3 dlard, gravely. 

“ It was a question which 1 did not choose to answer, and which 


49 


wyllard’s weird. 

lie had no right to ask. It was an outrage to ask such a question 
—to press it as he did. Fifty years ago he would have been shot for 
a lesser insult. By Jove, I never felt more sorry that the good old 
dueling days are over— the days when one man could not insult 
another with impunity.” 

” How savage you are, Both well, and against a man who was 
only in the exercise of his profession!” 

” He had no right to question me as if 1 were a murderer,” re- 
torted Both well, savagely. “ Did he think that 1 spent my time in 
Plymouth plotting that girl’s death? If 1 had made up my mind to 
push a woman over an embankment 1 should not have wanted to 
spend a day in Plymouth in order to plan the business. A murder 
of that kind must be touch and go — no sooner thought of than 
done.” 

” All trouble would hwe been saved, my dear fellow, if you had 
given a straight answer to a simple question.” 

” To answer would have been to acknowledge his right to ques- 
tion me. Ho judge would have allowed counsel to have asked such 
a motiveless question. It is only at a petty rustic inquiry that such 
a thing could be permitted.” 

” 1 can only say that you are needlessly angry, Both well,” said 
Mr. Wyllard. “ Here comes Distin. You had belter drive home 
with us?” 

‘‘Ho. thank you; I shall be home before the house shuts up, but 
you’ll see no more of me to-night.” 

” Good night, then.” 

The Penmorval barouche was waiting before the porch of the 
Vital Spark, a great day lor that rural hostelry when such a car- 
riage could be seen wailing there — a great day at the bar, where all 
the strength of the establishment could not serve brandies and sodas 
and pale ales fast enough. George Distin came tripping out and 
took his place in the carriage beside Julian Wyllard. He had lin- 
gered at the inn for a few minutes’ talk with the coroner. 

“ Is not Mr. Grahame going back with us?” he asked, as they 
drove toward the town. 

‘‘ Ho. Y’ou wounded his dignity by those questions of yours. 
He is a curious young man, and easily offended.” 

. ” He is a very curious young man,” answered the lawyer, with 
a thoughtful air. He was looking at the landscape intent!}^ as they 
drove along the shady road, between deep banks and luxuriant 
hedges, but he would have found it rather difRcult to say afterward 
what kind of timber prevailed in the hedgerows, or what crops grew 
in the fields. And yet he had a keen eye for nature when his mind 
w\as tree to observe. 

He was thoughtful all that evening, though he did his utmost to 
make himself agreeable to Mrs. AVyilard at dinner, talking to her 
of art, music, the drama, society, all the arts and graces and pleas- 
ures of life— doing all in his powder to distract her thoughts from that 
one grim theme which was the motive of his presence in that place. 

When she was gone and Distin and his host were alone together 
over their claret, the law 3 "er dropped his society manner as if il had 
been a mask, and began to talk seriouslj^. 

“For the first time for a good many years 1 find myself com- 


50 


wyllard's weird. 


pletely at fault,” he said, leaning across the table, and cracking a 
filbert as if in sheer distraction of mind. “ 1 thought that 1 should 
be able to get up a case while I was in London, but not a shred of 
evidence have 1 discovered. If this girl had dropped from the moon 
it could not be more difficult to trace her.” 

” Well, m}^ dear Distiu, you have done your best, and we must 
be satisfied,” replied Julian Wyllard, quietly. ” 1 felt it to be my 
duty as a magistrate to do all in my power to fathom the mystery 
of that poor girl’s death. The best thing 1 could do was to put the 
case in your liands. If you can not help us no one can. We must 
be satisfied.” 

But 1 am not satisfied,. Wyllard; 1 never shall be satisfied until 
I have solved this problem,” said Distin, resolutely. ”1 am not 
the kind of man who can stand being baffied in a matter ol this 
kind. Is all my professional training to go for nothing, do you 
think? And yet in your interest it might be best that 1 sbould let 
this business drop out of my mind—forget the whole story if pos- 
sible. ’ ’ 

‘‘ How do you mean, in my interest?” exclaimed Wyllard, sur- 
prised. ” What bearing can the case have upon me or my interest, 
beyond my desire to do my duty as a magistrate.” 

” 1 fear that this m 5 ^stery touches you nearer than you suppose. 
Surely, Wyllard, you must have been struck by the manner of 3 ^our 
wife’s kinsman under my examinatian.” 

“Great heaven!” cried Wyllard; ‘‘you don’t mean to tell me 
that you suspect Bothwell Giahame of any hand in this business?” 

“ fn perfect frankness, between man and man, 1 believe that 
young man to be in some way — either as principal or accessory — 
concerned in the murder of that girl.” 

‘‘ My dear Distin. you must be mad.” 

“ Come, now, my dear Wyllard, you can not oretend that you 
did not notice the strangeness of Mr. Grahame’s maunei this after- 
noon. His refusal to answer my question about his business in 
Plymouth.” 

” He was angry at your catechising him in that manner; and T 
must confess that your question appeared to the last degree irrele- 
vant, even to me.’' 

“ Granted. My question was irrelevant. But it was a test ques- 
tion. 1 should never have cross-examined Mr. Grahame if I had 
not seen reasons for suspecting him before the inquiry began. 1 
was painfully impressed by his manner the night 1 dined here with 
him; and 1 believe, from certain indications dropped unconsciously 
by your coroner, that he, too, saw reason for suspecting Mr. Gra- 
hame. His manner to-day confirms my suspicion. 1 am deeply 
grieved that it should be so, on your wife’s account.” 

” You had need be sorry for her. Why, Bothwell is like a 
brother to her. It would break* her heart,” said Wyllaid, strongly 
agitated. 

He had risen from the table, and w^as w^alking slowly up and 
down the room, between the windows opening wide upon the gray 
evening sk}^ and the warm lamplight within. George Distin could 
not see his face — but he could see that he was strongly moved. 

“ My dear fellow, let us hope that Mrs. Wyllard will never know 


WYLLARD 


WEIRD. 


51 


anything about (bis suspicion of mine, said Dislin, soothingly. “ I 
baVe — so fat— not one scrap of evidence against Mr. Grahame, ex- 
cept the evidence ot looks and manner, and the one fact ot his re- 
fusal to ssy what he was doing in Plymouth the day of the giiTs 
death. There is notliing in all that to bring a man to the gallows. 
1 may have my own ideas about this mrstery — and Mr. Heathcote 
may have pretty much the same notion— but there is nothing to 
touch your wife’s cousin so far. 1 shall go back to town, and try 
j to forget the whole matter. Ail you have to do is to keep your own 
counsel, and take care that Mrs. Wyllard knows nothing of what 
has passed in strictest confidence between you and me.’* 

“ 1 would not have her know it for worlds. It would break her 
heart, it would kill her, in all probability. Women can not bear 
such shocks. And to think that a man can be suspected of a crime 
on such grounds — suspected by you, a student of. crime and crim- 
inals. Because of a moody manner — a refusal to answer a question. 
The whole thing seems too absurd for belief.’’ 

“ Say that the thing, is- absurd, and that for once in his life George 
Bistin has made a fool of himself. Take your wife to Aix les 
Bains — or to Biarritz.” 

Julian Wyllard started at that last word as if he had been stung. 

“What the deuce is the matter with you, or with Biarritz?’^ 
asked Distin, sharply. 

“ Nothing. My mind was wandering, that’s all. "You were say- 
ing—” 

“ That you had better forget all that has passed between us to- 
night — toiget the death of that girl— make a clean slate. Take your 
wife to some foreign watering-plaee, the brightest and gayest you 
can find. And let Bothwell Grahame dree his weird as best he 
may. The catastrophe on the i ail way will be forgotten in a week.” 

“ 1 doubt it.. We have not much to think about at Bodmin, and 
we exaggerate all our molebiils into mountains. That girl’s death 
will be talked about for the next six months.” 

“ And yet the people go on existing in such places, and think they 
are alive,” exclaimed Bistin. 

He left Penmorval after breakfast next morning, without having 
seen Bothwell, who was out on the hills breaking in a new horse 
while the family were at breakfast. He had been out since five 
o’clock, the butler told Mrs. Wyllard. 

“ Is he riding Glencoe?” she asked, with a look of alarm. 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

‘’ He is a dreadful horse, 1 know, Julian,” she said. “ Manby 
told me about him only yesterday.' He bad narrowly escaped being 
thrown the day before; and he said that Glencoe was a really dan- 
gerous hoi^e, and that we ought to get rid ot him.” 

“ So that he may break somebody else’s bones,” suggested Mr. 
Distin; “ that is what a good coachman always advises.” 

“ And now Bothwell has gone out on him, alone.” 

“ You would not have him take some one to pick him up if he 
fell,” said Wyllard. “ My dear Dora, there is not the slightest oc- 
casion for alarm. The horse is young, and a little gay; but your 
cousin excels as a rough rider, and there will be no harm done.” 


52 


wyllakd's weird. 


“ But why should he want to ride that horse/' said Dora. “I’m 
sure Manby would advise him not.” 

“ The very reason Why he should do it,” replied her husband. 

“ 1 wonder if he is trying to kill himself while 1 am eating my 
breakfast calmly here/' speculated George Distin. “ He must 
know that 1 suspect him; and he may think that the game is up." 

Whatever Bothwell’s intentions might have been, he came back 
to Penmorval before eleven o'clock, bringing home the big bay 
hunter bathed in sweat, and as tame as a sheep. 

“ A fine, honest horse, only wants riding," he said, as he flung 
the bridle to the groom, who had been watching for him at the 
stable gates wflth an air of expecting to see broken bones. 

In the hall, Bothwell met Dora, cool and calm, and beautiful in 
her white muslin breakfast-gown. She was bringing in a basket 
of stephanotis from the hot-house, to be arranged by her own hands. 

“Is that London lawyer gone yet," asked Bothwell, curtly. 

He could not be civil even to his cousin when he spoke of George 
Distin. 

“Yes, he has gone. 1 hope never to come back again," said 
Dora. “ He is really a very well-bred man, and he made himself 
most agreeable here; but he seemed to bring with him an atmos- 
phere of crime. 1 could not help thinking of all the horrible cases 
he must have been concerned in, and that he had grown rich by the 
crimes of mankind. He could find out nothing about that poor 
■girl's death, it seems, although he is so clever." 

“ Which goes rather to establish my view that the girl fell out of 
the train by accident," replied Bothwell. 


. CHAPTER V. 

SENT TO COVENTRY. 

The year was a month older since Mr. Distin went back to town, 
baffled and angry with himself, yet glad for his friend's sake that 
his discoveries had gone no further. "J'he heather was purpling on 
the hills, where the dwarf furze flashed here and there into patches 
of gold. The tourist season had set in; but the tourist tor the most 
part avoided the little town of Bodmin, nestling snugly inland 
among the hills, and turned his face to the sea and the wild rocks 
which defend that romantic western coast, to the Lizard and the 
Land’s End, to romantic Turtagel, and sandy Bude. 

Life at Penmorval had drifted by as calmly as an infant’s sleep in 
those four weeks of soft summer weather. Tlierehad been no visit- 
ors staying in the house, for both Julian Wyllard and his wife loved 
a studious repose, and there were long intervals in which they lived 
almost alone. Penmorval would be full by and by in October when 
the pheasant shooting began; and in the meantime it vras pleasant to 
Mrs. Wyllard to be able to ride and drive with her husband — to be 
the companion of his walks, to reed the books he read, and to waste 
long evenings in inexhaustible talk. They always had so much to 
say to each other. The sympathy between them was so complete. 

Hilda Heathcote w as at Penmorval nearly every day. She ranked 


wtllard’s weird. 


53 


almost as one of the family. She came to Mrs. Wyilard for counsel 
and instruction upon all manner of subjects — sometimes tor a gar- 
deniug lesson, sometimes for a lesson in crewelwork, in French, 
German, Italian. Dora was in advance of her young friend in all 
these subjects; but the pupil was so bright and quick that it was a 
pleasure to teach her. Between them Mrs. Wyllard and Miss Heath- 
cote achieved marvels in the way of art-needlework— piano- backs 
which were as beautiful as pictures, portieres worthy to lank with 
the highest examples of Gobelin tapestry, counterpanes that ought 
to have been exhibited at South Kensington. The calm leisure of 
country life lent itself to such slow and elaborate labors. 

Mrs. Wyllard had a big box of foreign books once a month from 
Eolandi’s library, and she meted out to Hilda such volumes as were 
fit for a young English lady^s perusal; and then they met to talk 
over the books — sometimes alone, sometimes with Bothwell as a 
third. Bolhwell was very scornful of all the sentimental books, 
laughed at the super-refined heroines of French novels, the dreamy 
heroes of German romance; but he read all the books that Hilda 
read, and he seemed to enjoy talking about them at that protracted 
feast of afternoon tea from which he rarely absented himself. 

The weather was peerless during this month of August, and Mrs. 
Wyllard’s afternoon tea-table was set out in an arbor of clipped 
yew, at the end of the Italian garden, a point from which there was 
a fine view of the moors, and the great brown fields beyond. 

BothwelTs sullen gloom had passed away soon after Mr. Distin’s 
departure. He seemed to Hilda to have become once again the old 
Bothwell — gay and cheery, and kind and frank. But he did not 
commit himself by any of those delicate little attentions to Hilda 
which had made him such an agreeable person halt a year ago. 
That particular phase of his character was a thing of the past. 

A month had gone since the close of tjie inquest at the Vital 
Spark, but Bodmin people had not forgotten the strange death of 
the nameless girl, and had not left ofi talking about it. They 
talked about Bothwell, too, and of his refusal to give a plain answer 
to a plain question ; and toward the end of that month Bothwell 
Gi*ahame woke up all at once to ihe consciousness that he was under 
a cloud. He discovered that he was being cut by his old acquaint- 
ances, so far as they dared cut a man of his standing and tempera- 
ment. They were not uncivil; they gave him good-day if they met 
him in the street; they would even deign to discuss the state of the 
, w^eather, the prospects of the crops. But Bothwell felt nevertheless 
that he was living under a cloud— there was a tacit avoidance of 
him, a desire to get ofi: with as slight a greeting as civility would 
permit. Hands were ho longer held out to him in friendship, greet- 
ings were no longer loud and cheery. Ko one asked him to stop 
and play billiards at the chief inn, as people had been wont to do, 
waylaying him when he wanted to get home. Kow he could pur- 
sue his walk without let or hinderance. He had even seen one of his 
most familiar friends stroll dreamily round a corner to avoid meet- 
ing him. 

During the whole of those four weeks he had not received a sin- 
gle invitation to play lawn tennis, he for whose presence tennis par- 
ties used to compete. There were two or three engagements out- 


54: 


AVYLLAKD S WEIRD. 


stau«Rng at the time of the inquest. He had kept these and had 
played his best, struggling against a coldness in the atmosphere. It 
had seemed to him that everybody was out of sorts. There was an 
all pervading dullness. Nobody could find anything pleasant to 
talk about; He had been very slow to perceive that cloud which hung^ 
over him, but by the end of the month the fact had become too 
palpable, and Bothwell Graham e understood tliat he had been “ sent 
to Coventry.” 

“ What does it all mean?” he asked himself aghast with indignant 
wonder, ” what can they have to say against me? Can any one have 
found out — ” 

Bothwell’s cheek paled as he thought of that one transaction in his 
life which he would least like to see recorded against him. But he 
told himself, after a few minutes' reflection, that nobody in Bodmin 
could possibly know anything about that particular episode in a 
young man’s history. 

He puzzled himself sorely about this change in the manner of 
his acquaintance, and on trying back he discovered that the change- 
dated from the day of the adjourned inquest. He recalled, too, the 
curious manner in which everybody had avoided the subject of the 
inquest before him; how' when any mention of the dead girl had 
been made in his presence, the conversation had been changed in- 
stantly, as if the subject must needs be tabooed before him. 

” L'pon my soul,” said Bothwell, ” 1 begin to think they suspect 
me of having thrown that girl out of the carriage. Because I re- 
fused to answer that insolent ruftian’s questions, these village 
wiseacres have made up iheir minds that I am a murderer.” 

He went back to Penmorval in a white heat of indignation; a 
week ago he had made up his mind to start for Peru. He had 
found out all about the steamer which was to carry him. He had 
obtained a letter of introduction to the proprietor of a newspaper, to 
some of the local aristocracy. He was ready to start forth upon his 
quest of fortune in the land of gold and jewels. But now he had 
told himself that wild horses should not drag him away from Pen- 
morval. He would stand his ground until he had humiliated those 
fools and rascals whom he had once called his friends. He would 
\ make them taste of the cup of their own folly. 

He was much too hot-headed to keep the secret ot his wrongs from 
that cousin who had been to him as a sister. He went straight to 
Dora, and told her of the foul suspicion that had arisen in men’s 
minds against him. 

She had read the report of the inquest, and although she had won- 
dered at his refusal to answer Mr. Distin’s question, she had been 
able to understand that his pride might revolt against being so 
catechised, and that he might choose to persist m that refusal as a 
point ot personal dignity. 

” Any one who can suspect you for such a reason— any one who 
could suspect you for any reason must be an idiot, Bothwell,” she 
exclaimed. ” There is no use in being angry with such people.” 

” But ] am angry with them. I am rabid^with anger.” 

‘‘Why did you not answer that question, Bothwell?” asked his 
cousin, thoughtfully. 

” Because 1 did not choose.” 


wyllard’s weird. 


55 


“ Yet it would have prevented all possibility of misapprehension 
if you had ^iven a straight answer. And it would have been so 
easy,” argued Dora. 

“ It would not have been easy. It was not possible to answer that 
question.” 

“ Why not?” 

** Because I could not answer it without injuring some one— 1 
esteem,” replied Bothvrell, relapsing into thatcuVious, sullen manner 
which Mr. Heathcote bad observed on the day of the inquest. 

” Oh, Both well, you have secrets then — a secret from me, your 
adopted sister?” 

” t'es, 1 have my secrets.” 

” 1 am so sorry. 1 used to hope that 1 should have a share in the 
planning of your life, and now 1 begin to fear — ” 

” That my life is wrecked already. You are right, Dora. My 
life was wrecked three years before 1 left India, but 1 did not know 
then what shipwreck meant. 1 thought that there was land ahead, 
and that I should make it; but 1 know now 1 was drifting toward a 
fatal rock upon which honor, happiness, and prosperity must needs 
go to pieces.” 

” Don’t talk in riddles, Bothwell. Tell me the plain truth, how- 
ever bad it may be. You know you can trust me.” 

” 1 do, dear soul, as 1 trust heaven itself. But there are some 
things a man must not tell. Yes, Dora, 1 have my secret, and it is 
a hard one to cany — the secret of a man who is bound in honor to 
one woman while he fondly loves another.” 

“ Bothwell, 1 am heartily sorry for you,” said his cousin, softly. 

She put her arms round his neck as if they had still been boy and 
girl. She put her lips to his fevered forehead. She comforted him 
with her love, being able to give him no other comfort. 

* * * * * * * 

Hilda Heathcote came up the avenue ten wiinutes later, escorting 
a matchless donkey, which was of so pale a gray as to be almost 
white. It was a donkey of surpassing size and dignity, and gave 
itself as many airs as if it had been a white elephant. It carried a 
pair of panniers, highly decorated in a Moorish fashion, and in the 
Moorish panniers sat Edward Heathcote’s twin daughters. 

The twins were as like as the famous Corsican Brothers in person, 
but they were utterly unlike in disposition, and the blue and pink 
sashes which they wore for distinction were quite unnecessary; since 
no one could have mistaken Minnie, the overbearing twin, for 
Jennie, tlie meek twin. People only had to be in their company 
half an hour to know which was which forever after. Minnie al- 
ways came to the front, was always mistress of the situation, and 
where Jennie shed tears, Minnie always stamped her foot. Need- 
less to say that Minnie was everybody’s favoiite. Naughtiness 
at four years old, a termagant in miniature, is always interest- 
ing. Mr. Heathcote was the only person in Cornwall who could 
manage Minnie, and who properly appreciated Jennie’s yielding 
nature. Jennie felt that her father loved her, and used to climb on 
his knee and nestle in his waistcoat, while Minnie was charming 
society by those little airs and graces which were spoken of vaguely 
as ” showing off.” 


56 


wyllard’s weird. 


To-day Minnie was in a delightful humor, for she was being 
escorted in triumph to a long-promised festival. Since the very be- 
ginning of the summer the twins had been promised that they should 
go to drink tea with 3Irs. Wyllard some day when they had been 
very good. Jennie had done everything to deserve the favor, but 
Minnie had offended in somewise every day. She had been cruel to 
the dogs— she had made an archipelago of blots in her copy-book, 
while her pothooks'and hangers were a worse company of cripples 
than Falstaff ’s regiment. She had been rude to the kind fraulein. 
She had been rebellious at dinner, hg^d protested with loud wailings 
against the severity of seven o’clock bed. Only toward the end of 
August had there come a brief interval of calm, and Hilda had been 
quick to take advantage of these halcyon days, knowing how soon 
they would be followed by storm. 

The tea-table was laid in the yew-tree arbor, such a table as little 
children love, and which has an attractive air even to full-grown 
humanity. Such a delicious variety of cakes and jams and home- 
niade bread, such nectarines and grapes. Minnie shouted and 
clapped her hands at sight of the feast, while Jennie blushed and 
hung ner head, abashed at the dazzling apparition of Mrs. Wyllard 
in an Indian silk gown with a scarlet sash, and flashing diamond 
rings. Hilda had no such jewels on her sunburnt fingers. 

“ What a nice tea,” cried Minnie, when the blue and pink twins 
had each been provided with a comfortable seat, each in a snug 
corner of the arbor, banked in by the tea-table. ” Why do we 
never have such nice teas at home? Why don’t we, Aunt Hilda?” 
she repeated, when her question had been ignored for a couple of 
seconds. 

‘‘ Because such nice things would not be wholesome every day,” 
replied Hilda. 

” 1 don’t believe that,” said Minnie. 

” Oh, Minnie!” cried Jennie, with a shocked air. ” You mustn’t 
contradict people. You mustn’t contradict Aunt Hilda, because she 
is old.” 

” If cakes weren’t wholesome she wouldn’t have them,” said 
Minnie, ignoring the blue twin’s interruption, and pointing her 
chubby fingers at Mrs. Wyllard. ‘‘ She can have wdiat she likes, 
and she is grown up and knows ever^dhing. She wouldn’t give us 
unwholesome things. 1 know why we don’t have such nice teas at 
home.” 

” Why not, Minnie?” asked Dora, to encourage conversation. 

Because fraulein is too stingy. 1 heard cook say so the other 
day. She is always grumbling about the cream and butter. You 
don’t grumble about the cream and butter, do you?” she asked, in 
her point-blank way. 

” I’m afraid I’m not so good a housekeeper as the fraulein,” an- 
swered Dora. 

” Then 1 like bad housekeepers best. 1 shall be a bad house- 
keeper when 1 grow up, and tlieie shall always be cakes for tea — 
ever so many cakes, as there are here. I’ll have some ot that, 
pleasfe,” pointing to an amber-tinted pound-cake, ” first.” 

By this Minnie signified that she meant to eat her way through 
the varieties of the tea-table. 


wyllard’s weird. 57 

'‘And what will Jennie take?” asked Dora, smiling at the blue 
twin. 

‘‘Jennie’s a bilious child,” said Minnie, authoritatively, ‘‘she 
ought to have something very plain.” 

Jennie, A^ith her large blue eyes fixed pathetically on the pound- 
cake, waited tor whatever might be given to her. 

“ Do you think just one slice ot rich cake would make you ill, 
Jennie?” asked Dora. 

‘‘ I’m sure it would,” said Minnie, plotving her way through her 
own slice. ” She’s always sick. She was sick when we went to 
see grandma. Grandma isn’t rich, you know, because her husband 
was a clergyman, and they’re always poor. But she gives us beau- 
tiful teas when we go to see her, and lets us run about her garden 
and pick the fruit, and trample on the beds and do just as we like, 
so we don’t mind going to tea with grandma though she’s old and 
deaf. Jennie had cherries and pound-cake the last time we went to 
see grandma, and she was ill all night. You know you were, 
Jennie.” 

The blue twin admitted the fact, and meekly accepted a hunch of 
sanitarian sponge-cake. 

“ You must not talk so much, Minnie; you are a perfect nuisance,” 
said Hilda; and then she looked round hesitatingly once or twice be- 
fore she asked, ‘‘ What has become of Mr. Grahame? He generally 
honors us with his company at afternoon tea.” 

‘‘ Both well has been a little worried this morning,” faltered Dora. 

He is not very well.” 

Her heart sunk within her at the thought that this girl — this girl 
whom she had once thought of as Bothwell’s future wife —would 
come in lime to know the dark suspicion which hung over him like 
a poisonous cloud. She would be told by and by that people 
thought of him as a possible murderer, a wretch who had assailed a 
defenseless girl, set upon her as a tiger on his prey, hurled her to a 
dreadful death* She would learn that there were people in the 
neighborhood capable of suspecting this very Bothwell Grahame, 
gentleman and soldier, of so dastardly a crime. 

Dora had hardly been able to realize the awfulness of the situation 
yet. In her desire to comfort her cousin she had made light of the 
unspoken slander, the cruel taint which had been breathed upon his 
name. But now, as she sat at her tea-table ministering to her two 
little guests, trying to appear interested in their prattle, her heart 
was aching as it had not ached since she had been forgiven by Ed- 
ward Heathcote. From that hour until the strange girl’s death her 
life had been cloudless. And now a cloud had drifted across her 
horizon, darkening the sunlight — a cloud that hung heavily over the 
head of one whom she dearly loved. 


CHAPTER Yl. 

A CLERICAL WARNING. 

The children’s tea-party lasted a long time, and the twins enjoyed 
themselves prodigiously in the Yew Tree Arbor, albeit both their 
hostess and their aunt were curiousl}^ absent-minded, and returned 


58 


wyllard's weird. 


vaguest answers to "Minnie’s continuous prattle, and to occasional 
remarks propounded gravely by Jennie between two mouthfuls ot 
cake. 

Perhaps the twius enjoyed themselves all the more under this 
condition of things, for they w^ere allowed to range at will from one 
dainty to another, and were not worried by those troublesome sug- 
gestions of unwholesomeness which are apt to harass juvenile 
feasters. 

Tea was over at last, and then they had a eame at ball on the grass 
in front of the fountain ; after that they fed the gold-fish, and then 
Hilda began to think of getting them home. It was nearly seven 
o’clock by this time, and Botliwell had not appeared. 

The whole business seemed fiat and stale and unprofitable to 
Hilda for want of that familiar presence. He had been so pleasant 
of late — not attentive or flattering ot speech as young men are to 
girls they admire. He had said none of these pretty things which 
call up blushes in girlish cheeks; but he had been kind and brother- 
ly, and Hilda was satisfied to accept such kindness from him. She 
thought it even more than her due. She was not what is called a 
high-spirited girl. She did not expect men to bow down and wor- 
ship her, she did not expect that hearts were to be laid at her feet 
for her to trample upon them. She had none of the insolence of 
conscious beauty. If ever she were to love it would be secretly,, 
meekly, patiently, as Shakespeare’s Helena loved Bertram, with a 
reverent upward-looking affection, deeming her lover remote and 
superior to her as a star. 

There had been a tirhe when she thought that Bothwell cared for 
her a little, and then he had been to her as Bertram. Now he was 
kind and brotherly, and she w^as grateful for his kindness. 

She was somewhat heavy-hearted as she smoothed her disordered 
hair — rumpled in a final game of romps with the twins — and put on 
her hat to go home. The donkey was waiting before the old stone 
porch, and Fraulein Meyerstein had come to assist in escorting the 
twins. 

“ I thought Minnie might be troublesome after tea,” she said, as • 
if tea had the effect of champagne upon Minnie’s temperament. 

They set out across the fields in the warm glow of evening sun- 
light, a little procession — the children full of talk and laughter, 
Hilda more silent than usual. It was harvest lime, and the corn 
stood in sheaves in one wide field by which they went, a field on 
the slope of a hill on the edge of a vast stretch of moorland. On 
the lower side of the field there was a tall overgrown hedge; a 
hedge full of the glowof sunshine and the color of wild flowers, red 
and blue and yellow, an exuberance ot starry golden flowers, scat- 
tered everywhere amid the tangle ot foliage. 

There was a gap here and there in the hedge, where cattle or farm 
laborers had made a way for themselves from field to field, and 
through one of these gaps a man scrambled, and jumped into the 
path just in front ot the donkey. 

The animal gave a feeble shy, and the twins screamed, first with 
surprise then with pleasure. The man was Bothwell, and the twins 
adored Bothwell. 


wyllard’s weird. 59 

** Why didn't you come to tea?’’ asked Minnie indignantly. “ It 
was very rude of you.” 

“ 1 was out ot temper, Minnie; not fit company for nice people. 
How do you do, Hilda?” 

He had fallen into the way of calling her by her Christian name 
almost from the beginning of their acquaintance; in those days 
wiien he had been so much brighter and happier than he seemed to 
be now. 

The donkey jogged on, carrying ofl: the twins, Minnie holding 
forth all the time, lecturing Both well for his rudeness. The frau- 
lein followed, eager to protect her chaiges. They were only a few 
paces in advance, but Hilda felt as if she were alone with Both well. 

” ISo the children have had their long-promised tea-party,” he 
aaid, “ and 1 was out of it? Hard lines.” 

” They missed you very much,” said Hilda. But did not you 
know it was to be this afternoon?” 

” I knew yesterday — Dora told me,” answ.ered Both well, hitting 
the wild flowers savagely with his cane as he walked by Hilda’s 
side. Unconsciously they had fallen into a much slower pace than 
the fraulein and the donkey, and they were quite alone. . 

” 1 knew all about Uie lea-party, and 1 meant to be with you, and 
then something went wrong with me this morning and 1 felt only 
fit company for devils. If Satan had been giving a tea-party any- 
where wilhin reach 1 would have gone to that/' concluded Both- 
well, vindictively. 

“lam very glad Satan does not give tea-parties in Cornwall. Of 
course, you know that be would never trust himself in our county 
for fear we should make him into a pie,” answered Hilda, trying to 
smile. ” But i am very sorry to hear you have been worried.” 

‘VMy life has been made up of worries for the last six months. 1 
try sometimes to be cheerful — reckless rather— and to forget; and 
then the viper begins to bite again.” 

Hilda would have given much to be able to comfort him. It 
seemed almost as if he looked to her for comfort, and yet what 
could she say to a man whose troubles she knew not — who kept his 
own secret, and hardened his heart against his friends? 

The}’^ walked on in silence for a little way. Some of the reapers 
were going homeward in the soft evening light; there was a great 
wain being loaded a field or two off, and the voices of men and 
women sounded clear and musical through the summer stillness. 

” Would you be sorry for a man who had brought trouble on ' 
himself fj*om his own folly— from his own wrong-doing, Hilda?” 
Both well a^ked, presently. 

” 1 should be all the more sorry for him on that account,” she 
answered, gently. 

” Tes, you would pity him. Such women as you and my cousin 
are angels of compassion. They never withhold their pity; but it 
is tempered with scorn. They despise the sinner, even while they 
are merciful to him.” 

” Y'ou ought not to say that. 1 am not g.iven to despising people. 

I am loo cimscious of my own weakness.” 

“You are an angel,” said Bothwell, piteously. “Oh, Hilda, 


60 wyllaed’s weird. 

how much 1 have lost in life — how many golden opportunities 1 
have wasted! ' 

“ There are always other opportunities to be found," answered 
the girl, trving to speak words of comfort, vaguely, hopelessly, in 
her utter ignorance of his griefs, his perplexities. “ There’s always 
the future, and the chance of beginning again." 

“ Y"es, in Queensland, in the Fijis, in Peru. If you mean that i 
may some day leain to make my own living, 1 grant the possibility. 
Queensland or Peru may do something for me. But my chances of 
happiness, my chances of renown, those are gone forever. 1 lost 
all when 1 left the army. At three-ann-thirty 1 am a broken mam 
Hard for a man to feel that his life is all over and done with before 
he is thirty-live years old." 

“ 1 fancy there must be a time in every life when the clouds 
seem to shut out the sun; but the clouds do not last fore\er,’’ said 
Hilda, softly. " 1 hope the cloud may pass from your sky." 

" Ah, if it would, Hilda — it that cloud could pass and leave me 
my own man again, as 1 was nine years ago, before 1 Went to 
India." 

" Y'ou seemed to be very happy last winter — in the hunting- 
season," said Hilda, trying to speak lightly, though her heart was 
beating as furiously as if she had been climbing a mountain. 

“Yes, I was happy then. 1 allowed myself to forget. 1 did not 
know just then that the trouble I had taken upon my shoulders was 
a life-long trouble. Yes, it was a happy time. Hilda, last winter. 
How many a glorious day we had together across country. You 
and 1 were always in the first flight, and generally, near each other. 
Our horses were always such good friends, were they not? They 
loved to gallop neck and neck. Oh, my darling, 1 was indeed 
happy in those days— unspeakably happy." 

He had forgotten all prudence, all self-restraint in a moment. 
He had taken Hilda's hand and lifted it to his lips. 

“ Oh, my dear one, let me tell you how 1 love you," he said. 1 
may never dare say more than that, perhaps — but it is true, and you 
shall hear it, it only once. Yes, Hilda, 1 love you. 1 have loved 
you ever since last winter, when you and 1 used to ride together. 
Oh, those happy winter days— those long waits at the corners of 
lanes, or in dusky thickets, of by the old mill. 1 shall never forget 
them. Do you think that 1 cared what became of the fox in those 
days, or whether we were after the right or the wrong one? Not a 
jot, dear. The veriest tailor that ever hung on to a horse could 
have cared no less tor the sport than 1. It was your sweet face I 
loved, and your friendly voice, and the light touch of your little 
hand. 1 was lull of hope in those days, Hilda; and then a cloud 
came over my horizon and 1 dared hope no more. 1 never meant 
to tell you — 1 knew 1 had no right to tell you this; but my feelings 
were too strong for me just now. Will you forgive me, Hilda, that 
1 who never dare to ask you to be my wife have dared to tell you of 
my love? Can you forgive me?" 

“ There is nothing to forgive," she answered gently, looking at 
him with tear- dimmed eyes. 

She was very pale, and her lips trembled faintly as she spoke. 
In her inmost heart she was exulting at the knowledge of his love. 


61 


wyllabd’s weird. 

ItTvasas if she had drunk a deep draught of the strong wine of life. 
In the rapture of knowing herself beloved she had no room for any 
other consideration. His love might be foolish, vain, unprofitable, 
fatal even. For the moment she could not measure the consequences 
or look into the future. 8he cared only for the fact.that Bothwell 
Grahame loved her. That love which she had given to him in 
secret, in all maiden modesty, purest, most ethereal sentiment ot 
which woman’s heart is capable, had not been lavished upon a blind 
and dumb idol, upon a god of wood and stone. 

They walked on for a few minutes in silence, Bothwell still hold- 
ing Hilda’s hand, but saying never a word. Alas, he had no more 
to say, or he dared say no more. He had told his secret, and had 
entreated to be forgiven. And now he came to a dead stop. . Fate 
had walled him round with difficulties, had set a barrier before his 
steps. Fate, or his own folly, that easy yielding to temptation which 
a man prefers to think of afterward as fatality. 

The thud of a horse’s hoofs upon the grass on the other side of 
the hedge startled Bothwell from his reverie, and Hilda from her 
beatitude. They looked up and saw Edward Heathcote cantering 
toward them on his powerful black. Mr. Heathcom was renowned 
for his hunters. He never counted the cost of a good horse, and 
he never bad been known to buy a bad one. He w^as a man who 
could pick out a horse in a field a quarter of a mile off, ragged and 
rough and unshorn, altogether out of condition, long mane and 
neglected tail, and could distinguish the quality of the animal to a 
shade. He had' made most of the hunters he rode, and was not 
affaid to tackle the most difficult subject. He loved horses, and 
they loved him. 'This was a subject upon which he and Bothwell 
sympathized, and it had been a link between them hitherto.. Koth- 
ing had been more friendly than their intercourse until the last few 
weeks, during which time Mr. Heathcote had carefully avoided 
Penmorval and Bothwell Grahame. 

He rode through a gap in the hedge, acknowledged Bothwell’^ 
presence with a nod that was barely courteous, and then turned to 
his sister. 

“ You had better hurry home, Hilda, if you want to be in time 
for dinner,” he said. 

Bothwell was not slow to take the hint. 

” Good-by, Hilda,” he said, offering her his hand. 

He called her by the name he loved boldly in her brother’s hearing. 
There was even a touch of defiance in his manner as he shook hands 
with her, and lingered with her hand in his, a fond, sad look in his 
eye, before he turned and walked slowly away along the narrow 
path beside the bright newly -cut stubble, which glittered golden in 
the evening light. 

Mr. Heathcote dismounted and walked beside his sister, with the 
black’s bridle over his arm, the well-broken horse following as qui- 
etly as a dog. 

“You and Grahame were in very close confabulation as 1 rode 
up, Hilda,” said Heathcote, gravely, with scrutinizing eyes upon 
Hilda’s blushing face. “ Pray what was he saying to you?” 

Hilda hung her head, and hesitated before she replied. 


62 


WYLLARD S WEIRD. 


“ Plense do not ask me, Edward,’' she said, falteringly, after that 
embarrassed silence. “ 1 can not tell you.’' 

“ You can not tell me, your brother, and natural guardian!” said 
Heathcote, severely. ” Am 1 to understand that there is some se- 
cret compact between you and Bothwell Grahame which can not be 
told to your brother?” 

” There is no secret compact. How unkind you are, Edward,”' 
cried Hilda, bursting into tears. “There is nothing between us, 
there is nothing to tell.” 

“ Then what are you crying about, and why was that man bend- 
ing over you, holding your hand just now when I rode up? A Uian 
does not talk in that fashion about nothing. He was making love 
to you, Hilda.” 

“ He told me that he loved me.” 

“ And you call that nothing?” said Heathcote, severely. 

“ It can never come to anything. It was a secret told unawares, 
on the impulse Of the moment. I have no right to tell you, only you 
have wrung the secret from me. Nothing can ever come of it, Ed- 
ward. Pray forget this thing has ever been spoken of between us.” 

“ 1 begin to understand,” said Heathcote. “He asked you to 
marry him, and 5^011 refused him. 1 am very glad of that.” 

” You have no reason to be ghid,” replied Hilda, with a flash of 
anger. She was ready to take her lover’s part at the slightest provo- 
cation. “ Y’'ou have no right to make guesses about Mr. Grahame 
and me. U is surely enough for you to know that 1 shall never be 
his wife.” 

They had left the stubble field, an<l were in a lane leading to the. 
Spaniards, a lane sunk between high banks and richly- wooded 
hedgerows, such as abound in that western world. 

“ That is enough for me to know,” answered Heathcote, g»‘ave- 
ly, ” but nothing less than that assurance would be enough. 1 hope 
it is given in good faith.” 

There was a severity in his manner which was new to Hilda. He 
had been the most indulgent of brothers hitherto. 

“ Why should you speak so unkindly about Mr. Grahame?” she 
said. “ What objection have you to make against him, except that 
he is not rich?” 

“ His want of wealth would make no difference to me, Hilda. If 
it were for your happiness to marry a man of small means, I could 
easily reconcile myself to the idea, and would do my best to lessen - 
the sting. of poverty. 1 have a much graver objection against Both- 
well Grahame than the fact that he is without a profession and 
without income. There is a dark suspicion in men’s minds about 
him which makes hioa a man set apart, like Cain; and my sister 
must have no dealings with such a man!” 

“ What do you mean, Edward?” exclaimed Hilda, turning ang- 
rily upon her brother with indignant eyes. “ YV'hat dark suspicion? ( 
Bow dare any one suspect him?’' 

‘‘ Uul)appil3% circumstances are his worst accusers. His own lips, j 
his own manner, have given rise to the conviction which has taken 
hold of men’s minds. When the idea that Bothwell Grahame was 
the murderer of that helpless girl first arose in my mind, 1 fought < 
against the hideous notion. 1 told myself that 1 was a wretch to j 


wyllard’s weird. 63 

imaorine such a possibility. But when 1 found that the same facts 
had made exactly the same impression upon other minds — ” 

“ You could think such a thing, Edward?’’ exclaimed Hilda, 
pale with horror. “ You, who have known Bothwell for years, 
who knew him when he was a boy— you. who have called yourself 
his friend, seen him day after day— you, a clever man, a lawyer, a 
man of the world — you can harbor such a thought as this? 1 could 
not have believed such a thing of you.” 

“ Perhaps it is because lama man of the world, and have seen 
life on the seamy site, and know too well to what dark gulfs men 
can go down when the tempter beckons them. Perhaps it is be- 
cause of my experience that 1 suspect Bothwell Grahame.” 

” Oh, it is too horrible!” cried Hilda, passionately. ” I feel as if 
1 must be mad myself, or in company with a madman. Bothwell 
Grahame — Bothwell, whom 1 remember when 1 was a child, ihe 
frank, generous-hearted hid, who went away to India to fight for 
his country, and who fought so well, and won such praise from his 
commanding officer — ” 

” Yes, Hilda,” interrupted her brother, “and who, ^usl when he 
seemed on the high road to fortune, threw up his chance and aban- 
doned his profession, to become an idler at home. Tiiat same Both- 
well Grahame, who, when he was asked wdiat he did with himself 
during a long day at Plymouth, could give no account of his time. 
That same Bothwell, whose manner from the hour of that catastro- 
phe on the line, became gloomy and sullen — altered so completely 
that he seemed a new man. That same Bothwell, whom everybody 
in the neighborhood of Bodmin suspects of a foul crime. That is 
the man whom 1 do not wish my sister to marry; albeit, he is of 
the same flesh and blood as the woman whom 1 respect above all 
other women.” 

“lam glad you have remembered that — at last,” said Hilda, bit- 
terly. “ 1 am glad you have not quite forgotten that this murderer 
is Dora Wyl lard’s first cousin — brought up with her, taught by the 
same teachers, reared in the same way of thinking.” 

“ God grant that I may see reason to alter my opinion, Hilda,” 
replied her brother. “ Do you suppose that this dark suspicion of 
mine is not a source of profoundest pain and grief? But while I think 
as 1 do, can you wonder that 1 forbid any thought or suggestion of 
a marriage between my sister and Bothwell Grahame?” 

“1 have told you that 1 siiall never be his wife,” said Hilda. 
“ Pray, do not let us ever speak his name again.” 

The}’^ were at the entrance to the Spaniards by this time — not the 
big iron gates by the lodge, but a little wooden gate opening into 
the fine old garden, second only in beauty to the Peninoryal garden. 

“ Will you mind if I don’t appear at dinner, Edward?” asked 
Hilda, piCvSently, as they went into the house. “ 1 haye a splitting 
headache.” 

“ Poor little girl!” said her brother, tenderly. “ You are .look- 
ing the picture of misery. I am yery sorry for you, my dear. I 
am yery sorry for us all, for 1 tear there is calamity ahead for some 
of us. If Bothwell is wise, he will go to the other end of the world, 
and take himself as far as possible out of the ken of his country- 


64 


wyllakd’s weird. 


men. It he should ask you for counsel, Hilda, that is the best ad- 
vice you can give him.” 

” It he should ask me, that is just the very last counsel he would 
ever hear from my lips,” answered Hilda, indignantly. ‘‘ 1 would 
entreat him to stand his ground— to live down this vile calumny— to 
wait the day when Providence will clear his name from this dark 
cloud. Such a day will come — 1 am sure of that.” 

She went to her own room, and shut herself up for the rest of the 
evening. The conventional excuse of a headache answered very 
well with the servants. She declined all refreshment — would not 
have this or that brought up on a tray to oblige Glossop, her own 
maid, who was deeply concerned at her young mistress’s indisposi- 
tion. 

“ I have a racking headache,” she said, ” and all I want is to be 
left alone till to-morrow morning. Don’t come near me, please, till 
you bring me my early cup of tea.” 

Glossop sighed, and submitted. It was not often that Miss Heath- 
cote was so willful. Glossop was the coachman’s daughter, had 
been born and brought up at the Spaniards in old Squire Heath- 
cote’s time. She was a buxom young woman of five-and- thirty, 
and counted herself almost one of the family. 

At last Hilda was alone. She locked her door, and began to pace 
her room, up and down, up and down, with her hands clasped upon 
her forehead, trying to Ihink over her perplexities. 

It was a fine spacious old bedroom, lighted by old-fashioijed case- 
ment windows, looking two ways — one to the garden, one to the 
timber- belted lawn and paddocks, which might almost take rank as a 
park. There was a sitting-room adjoining, which was Hilda’s own 
particular apartment, containing her books and piano, and the little 
table on which she painted china cups and saucers. Hilda had spent 
many a happy hour in these rooms, practicing, studying, painting, 
dreaming, over high art needle work. But this evening she felt as 
if she could never again be happy, here or anywhere. A great 
black cloud of grief and trouble had spread itself around her, in- 
folding her as a mantle of darkness, shutting out all the light of life. 
The sun was sinking behind the tall chestnuts, in a sea of red and 
gold. Every leaflet of rose or myrtle that framed the casement was 
distinct against that clear evening sky. Such a pretty room within, 
such a lovely land and sky without, and yet that young soul was 
full of darkness. 

She had defended her lover with indignant firmness just now. 
She had boldly alleged his innocence— declared that this thing could 
not be true — and nowin solitude she looked in the face of that cruel 
suspicion, and her faith beg;m to waver. 

What could be stranger or more suspicious than Both well’s con- 
duct this evening? With one breath he had avowed his love— with 
the next he had told her that he was unworthy to be her lover — that 
they two could never be man and wife. 

Yes, it was true that he had changed of late —that he had become 
gloomy, despondent, fitful. His manner had been that of a man 
bowed down by the burden of some sepret trouble. But was he for 
this reason to be suspected ot a hoirible crime? It was cruel. 


wyllaed’s weird. 65 

abominable of people to suspect him — most of all cruel and un- 
worthy in her brother, who had known him from boyhood. 

And then came the hideous suggestion, as it whispered in her 
ear by the fiend himself, “ What if my brother should be right?” 
Hei’ own experience of the world was of the slightest. Her only 
knowledge of life was derived from the novels she had read. She 
had read of darkest crimes, of strange contradictions in human nat- 
ure, mysterious workings oi the human heart. Hitherto, she had 
considered these lurid lights, these dark shadows, as the figments 
of the romancer’s fancy. Now, she began to ask herself it they 
miglit not find their counterpart in fact. 

She had read of gentlemanlike murderers —assassins of good bear- 
ing and polished manners — Eugene Aram — Count Eosco — and 
many more of the same school. What if Bothwell Grahame were 
such as these, hiding behind his frank and easy manner the violent 
passions of the criminal? 

No, she would not believe it. She laughed the foul fiend to 
scorn. Her woman’s instinct was truer than her brother’s legal 
acumen, she told herself; and, as tor those Bodmin busy bodies, she 
weighed their wisdom as lighter than thistledown. 

‘‘"l would marry him to-morrow, if he asked me to be his wife,” 
she said to herself. ” 1 would stand beside him at the altar in the 
face of all his slanderers. 1 would be proud to bear his name.” 

In an age when infidelity and scorn of religious ceremonial are 
very common among young men, Bothwell Graham had always been 
steadfast to the Church, and to the good old-fashioned habits in which 
he had been brought up by his aunt. He was not a zealot or an en- 
thusiast; ‘but he attended the services of his church with a fair regu- 
larity, and had a respect for the rector of his parish. Even in India, 
where men are apt to be less orthodox than at home, Bothwell had 
always been known as a good churchman. 

For the last year it had been his custom to receive the sacrament 
on the first Sunday of the month. He had risen- early, and had 
walked across the dewy fields to the old parish church, and had 
knelt among the people who knew him, and had felt himself all the 
better for that mystic sacred office, even when things were going far 
from well with him. There was much that was blameworthy in 
his life; yet he had not felt himself too base a creature to kneel 
among his fellow-sinners at the altar of the Sinner’s Friend. 

It was a shock, therefore, to receive a letter from the rector on the 
last day of August requesting him to absent himself from the com- 
munion services on the following Sunda}^ lest his presence before 
that altar should be a scandal to the other communicants. 

” God forbid that 1 should condemn any man unheard,” wrote 
the rector, “ but you must be aware of the dark scandal attaching 
to your name. You have not come to me, as I hoped you would 
come, to explain the conduct which has given rise to that scandal. 
You have taken no step to set yourself right before your fellow- 
men. Cau you wonder that your own silence has been in some wise 
your condemnation? My duty to my flock compels me to warn 
you that, until you have taken some steps to free your character 

3 


66 


WYLLARD’s WEI 111 ). 


from tlie slmdow of a terrible suspicion, j^ou must not approach the 
altar of your parish church. 

If you will come to me, and open your heart to me, as the sin- 
ner should to f)is priest, I may be able to counsel and to help you. 
If you caT clear yourself to me, 1 will be your advocate with your 
fellow-parishioners. 

“ Always your friend, 

* ‘ J OHN Monkhouse. * ' 

He did wisely to write,*' said Bothwell, crushing the letter in 
his clinched fist. “ If he had spoken such words as those to me 1 
believe 1 s)iould have knocked him down, anointed priest though 
he is.’* 

He answered the rector’s letter within an hour after receiving it. 

“ 1 have nothing to confess,** he wrote, “ and that is why 1 have 
not gone to your confessional. The difficulties and perplexities of 
iny life are such as could only be understood by a man of my own 
age and. surroundings. They would be darker than Sanscrit to clei- 
ical irray hairs. 

“ Because 1 did not choose to answer questions which 1 could not 
answer without betraying the confidence of a friend, my wise fel-' 
h)W parishioners choose to suspect me of murdering a girl whoso 
face I never saw till after her death. 

“ 1 shall attend to receive the sacrament at the eight o’clock serv- 
ice next Sunday, and 1 dare you to refuse to administer it. 

“ 1 have the honor to be, 

“'Vours, &c., 

‘ ‘ Bothwell Gr ahame. * 

He walked to Bodmin and delivered his letter at the Rectory door. 
He would not run the risk of an hour’s delay. On bis way home 
he overtook Hilda, neai the gntes of the Spaniards. She was very 
pale when lliey met, and she grew still paler as they shook hands. 

After a word or tw^o of greeting, they walked on side by side in 
silence. 

“ 1 wonder that you can consent to he seen with me,” said Both- 
well, presently, alter a farmer’s wife had driven past them on her 
way frr.in maiket. “ You must have heard by this time wdmt i>eo- 
ple think about me — your brother foremost among them, 1 believe, 
for be has given me tlie cut direct more thau once since the inquest.” 

”l am sorry that he should be so ready to believe a lie,” said 
Hilda, for 1 know that this terrible slander is a lie.” 

” God bless you for those straight, strong words, Hilda,” ex- 
claimed Bothwell, fervently. ” Yes, it is a lie. 1 am not a good 
man. 1 have done one guilty act in my life, and the consequences 
of that act have been very heavy upon me. But 1 am not capable 
of the kind of wickedness which my Bodmin friends so readily 
impute to me. 1 have not risen to the sublimer heights of crime, 1 
am not up to throwing a fellow-creature out of a railway carriage.” 

“ Why did you not answ'er that man’s question at the inquest?** 
said Hilda, urgently, forgetting that «h'e had hardly the right to 


1 


wyllard’s weird, 


67 


I demand Ris confidence. “ That refusal of yours is the cause of all 
! this misery. It seems such a foolish, obstinate act on your part.” 

I ‘‘I dare say it does. But I could not do more or less than 1 did. 

I To have answered that inquisitive cur’s prying questions categoric- 
I ally, would have been to injure a lady. As a man of honor, I 
i was bound to run all risks rather than do that.” 

!| “ I understand,” said Hilda, blushing crimson. 

Why had she not guessed his secret long before this? she asked 
herself. The mystery that surrounded him was the mystery of some 
fatal love aflair. iShe was only a secondary person in Ids life. There 
was another who had been more to him than she, Hilda, could ever 
be — another to whom he was bound, for whom he was w filing to 
sacrifice his own character. She felt a bitter pang of jealousy at the 
mere thought of that unknown one. 

I ” No, you can never understand,” exclaimed Bothwell, passion- 
1 ately. You can never imagine the misery of a man who has bound 
: himself by a fatal lie which chains him to one woman, long after 
j his heart has gone out to another. 1 gave away my liberty while 1 
was in India, Hilda; pledged myself for all time to one who could 
give me but little in return for m^ faith and devotion. 1 dare not 
tell you the circumstances of that tondage— the fatality which led 
to that accursed engagement. 1 am desperate enough to break the 
tie, now that it is too late— now that 1 date not offer niystlf to the 
girl 1 love— now that my name is blasted forever. Yes, forever. 
1 know these nariow-minded rustics, and that to the end of my life 
1 shall in their sight bear the brand of Cain. Here is a specimen of 
libfcial feeling, Hilda.” 

He handed her the rector’s letter, crumpled in his angry grasp. 

She read it slowly, tears welling up to her eyes as she r^ad. How 
hardly the world was using this poor Bothwell; and the harder he 
was used the more she loved him. 

; “ What are you going to do?” she asked. 

I ** 1 shall kneel belore the altar of my God, as I have knelt before. ” 

“ There will at least be one 3 ommunicant there who will not 
' shrink from you,” said Hilda, softly. ” We will kneel side by side, 
if you like.” 

” God bless you, my darling. God help me to clear m 3 ’' name 
from this foul stain which fools have cast upon it: and then a day 
! may come when you and I may kneel before that altar, side by side, 
and I may be thrice blessed in winning you for my wife.” 

There was a brief silence before Hilda muimured, “You have 
told me that you are bound to another.” 

“ Yes, and 1 have told you that 1 will break through that bond- 
age.” 

“ Can you do so with honor?” 

“ Yes. It will be more honorable to cancel my vow than to keep 
It. And when 1 am a fiee man— when this shadow has been cleaied 
, from m}’’ name — will yoii take me for your husband, Hilda — a man 
with his TV ay to make in the world, but needing only such an iu- 
ducement as your love to undertake the labors of a new Hercules? 
Will you have me, Hilda, when 1 am my own man again?” 

“1 will,” answered Hilda, softly, yet with a firm faith that 
thrilled him. “ 1 shall have to face my brother’s auger, perhaps; 


68 


wyllard’s weird. 


but 1 will not wait till your name is cleared from this slander. Cf 
what use is fair-weather love? It is in storm and cloud that a 
w^oman’s faith stands steadfast. When you have freed yourself 
from that old tie which has cjrown a weariness to you — when you 
can come to me in all truth and honor, my heart shall answer 
frankly and fully, Bolhwell. And then you can tell our friends 
that we are engaged. It may be a very long engagement, perhaps. 
I shall not be of age till two years hence, you know. But what does 
that matter. People will know at least that 1 do not suspect you of 
a crime.” 

” My noble girl,” he cried, beside himself with rapture. 

Nevfer had he thought to find any woman so frank, so generous, 
so brave. He would have caught her in his arms, pressed her to 
his passionately beating heart, but she drew herself away from him 
with a quick, decisive gesture. 

“ Not until you are free, Bothwell, not until you can tell me hon- 
estly and truly that the old tie is broken, the old vow canceled. 
Till then we can be only friends.” 

Be it so,” he answered, submissively. “ Y'our friendship is 
worth more than the love of other women. Will you walk to Pen- 
morval with me? Dora has been w^ondering at your desertion.” 

” Not to-day. Please tell Dora that 1 have not been very well. I 
will go to see her to-morrow. Good-by, Bothwell.” 

” Good-by, my beloved.” 

They parted at the gate of the Spaniards. 


CHAPTER VII. 

A RAPID CONVERSION. 

Three days after that compact between Bothwell and Hilda, an 
officious friend went out of his w^ay to inform Mr. Heathcote that his 
sister and Grahame had been seen together several times of late, 
and that their manner indicated a more than ordinary degree of in- 
timacy. They had been observed together at the early service on 
Sunday morning; they had sat in the same pew; they had walked 
away from the church side by side— indeed. Mi. Heathcote’s friend 
believed they had actually walked to the Spaniards together. 

” It is a shame that such a man as Captain Grahame should be 
allowed to be on intimate terms with an innocent young girl,” said 
the worthy rustic, in conclusion. 

” My dear Badderly, 1 hope 1 am able to take care of my sister 
without Ihe help of all Bodmin,” said Heathcote, shortly. ” Every- 
body is in great haste lo condemn Mr. Grahame; but you must not 
forget that my sister and 1 have been intimate with him and his 
family tor years. We cap not be expected to tarn our backs upon 
him all at once, because his conduct happens to appeaf somewhat 
mysterious.” 

Notwithstanding which kindly word for Bothwell, Edward 
Heathcote went straight home and questioned his sister as to her 
dealings with that gentleman. 

Hilda admitted that she had seen Bothwell two or three times 


' wyllard’s weird. 69 

within the last week, and that she had allowed him to walk home 
with her alter the early service. 

‘‘ Do you think it wise or womanly to advertise your friendship 
with a man who is suspected ol a foul crime?’' asked her brother, 
severely. 

“ 1 think it wise and womanly to be true to my friends in mis- 
fortune — in unmerited misf or,tune, ” she answered, firmly. 

“ You aie very strong in your faith. And pray whit do you ex- 
pect will be the end of all this?” 

“ 1 expect— 1 hope — that some day 1 shall be Both well’s wife. I 
shall not be impatient of your control, Edward. 1 am only nine- 
teen. 1 hope during the next two years you will find good reason 
to change your opinion about Both well, and to give your consent to 
our marriage — ' 

“ And if 1 do not?” 

‘ ‘ If you do not, 1 must take advantage of my liberty when I 
come of age, and marry him without your consent.” 

“You have changed your tune, Hilda. A week ago you told me 
that you and Both well would never be married. Now you boldly 
announce your betrothal to him.” 

“We are not betrothed et. ” 

“ Oh, there is a preliminary stage, is there? A kind of purgatory 
wdiich precedes the heaven of betrothal. Hilda, you are doing a 
mad and unwomanly thing in giving encouragement to this man, in 
the face of your brothers warning.” 

“ Am 1 to be unjust because my brother condemns a friend un- 
heard? No. Trust me, Edward, my instinct is wiser than your eii- 
perience. Why do you not question Bothwell? He will answer 
you as frankly as he answered me. He will tell you his reasons for 
refusing to satisfy that London lawyer’s curiosity. Oh, Edward, 
how can you be so cruel as to doubt hina, to harden your heart 
against him and against me?” 

“ Not against you, my darling,” her brother answered, tenderly. 
“ If 1 thought your happiness were really at stake, that your heart 
were really engaged, 1 would do much; but I can but think you 
are carried awa}^ by a mistaken enthusiasm. Y'ou would have 
never cared for Grahame if the world had not been against him, it 
he had not appeared to you as a martyr.” 

“ Y’ou are wrong there, Edward,” she answered, shyly, her fingers 
playing nervously with the collar of his coat, the darkly-fringed 
eyelids drooping over the lovely gray eyes. “ 1 have liked him 
for a long time. Last winter we used to ride together a good deal, 
you know— »” 

“ 1 did not know, or 1 should have taken care to prevent it,” said 
Heathcote. 

‘ ‘ Oh, it was always accidental , of course, ” she apologized. ‘ ‘ But 
in a hunting-country the fast-goers generally get together, don’t 
they?” 

“ In your case there was some very fast-going, evidently,” 

“ I used to think then that Bothwell cared for me — just a little. 
And then there came a change. But 1 know the reason of that 
change now; and I know that he really loves me.” 

“Oh, you are monstrous wise, child, and mpnstrous firm and 


wyllaed’s weird. 


self-willed for nineteen years old,’’ said her brother, in those deep 
grave tones of his, a voice which gave weight and power to the light- 
est words, and yon would trike your own road in life without count- 
ing the cost. Well, Hilda, for your sake T will try and get at the 
root of this mystery. 1 will try to fathom your lover’s secret, and 
Ood grnnt 1 may discover that it is a far less guilty secret than 1 have 
deemed.” 

He kissed Hilda’s downcast brow and left her. She was crying, 
but her tears were much less bitter than they had been, for she lelt 
that her brother was now on her side; and Edward Keathcote’s 
championship was a tower of streuath. 

Once having pledged himself to anything, even against his own 
■convictions, Mr. Heathcote was the last man to go from his word; 
but if he needed a stronger inducement than his sister’s sorrowful 
pleading, that inducement was not wanting. 

He leccived a note from Dora Wyllard within a few hours of his 
conversation with Hilda: 

“ Dear Mr. Heathcote, — My husband and 1 have both been 
wondering at your desertion of us. For my own part, 1 want much 
to see you, and to talk to you upon a very painful subject. Will 
you call at Penmorval after your ride to-morrow afternoon, and let 
me have a few words wiih you alone? 

“ Always faithfully yours, Dorothea Wyllard.” 

He kissed the little note before he laid it carefully in a drawer of 
his writing-table. It was a foolish thing to do, but the act was 
quite involuntary and half-unconscious. The sight of that hand- 
writimr brought back the feeling of that old time when a letter from 
Dora meant so much for him. He had trained himself to think of 
her as another man’s wife — in friendship, and friendship onl3\ He 
lelt himself bound in honor so to think ot her— all the more because 
he was admitted to her home, because she was not afraid to call him 
friend. Yet there were moments when the old feeling came over 
bim with irresistible force. 

He did not ride that afternoon, but walked across the fields, and 
presented himself at Penmorval between tour and five o’clock. Mrs. 
"Wyllard was alone in her morning-room, a room in which every- 
thing seemed a part of herself— her chosen books, her piano, her 
easel— all Ihe signs of those pursuits which he remembered as the 
delight of her girlhood. 

“ You paint still, 1 see,” he said, glancing at Ihe easel, on which 
there was an unfinished picture of her favorite collie; “you have 
not forgotten your old taste for animals.” 

“1 have so much leisure,” she answered, somewhat sadly, and 
then he remembered her childless home. 

She was very pale, and he thought she had a careworn look, as 
of one who had spent anxious days and sleepless nights. He look 
the chair to which she motioned him, and they sai opposite each 
other for some moments in silence, she looking down and playing 
nervously with a massive ivory paper-knife which wt*s lying on the 
table at which she had been writing when he entered. Suddenly she 
lifted her eyes to his face — tho^e lovely eyes which had looked at 
bim once before in his life with just that pathetic appealing look. 


WYLLAKD’s AVEIKD. 


71 

j ** It is very cruel of you to believe my cousin guilty of murder/*^ 
! she said, coming St I’fti i’ll t to the point. “You knew my mother. 

! Surely you must know our race well enough to know that it does 
; not produce murderers. ’’ 

i “ Who told you that 1 believed such a thing?” 

Your own actions have told me. Both well has been cut by the 
: people about here; and you, who should have been his stanch 
! triend and champion, you have kept away from Penmorval as-if 
j it were infected, in order to avoid meeting my cousin.” 
i “ 1 can not tell you a lie, Mrs. Wyllard, even to spare j^our feel- 
I ings,” replied ileathcote, deeply moved, “ and yet 1 think you must 
j know tliat 1 would do much to save 5^011 pain. Yes, I rrust admit 
that it has seemed to me that circumstances pointed to your cousin 
, as havinir been diiectly or indiiectly concerned in that girl’s death. 

: His conduct became so stranire at that date — so difficult to account 
' lor upon any other hypothesis.” 

;j “Has your experience of life never made you acquainted with 
strange coincidences?” asked Dora. “Is it impossible, or even im- 
i:i probable, that Bothwell should have some trouble upon his mind — 
;;i a trouble which arose just about the time of that girl’s death? 

Every thing must have a date, and his anxieties liappen to date from 
j that time. 1 know his frank, open nature, and how heavily any 
1 secret would vveigh upon him.” 

I “ You believe, then, that lie has a secret?” 

J “Yes — there is something— some entanglement which prevented 
] his answering Mr. Dislin’s somewhat impertinent questions/* 

J “ lias he confided his trouble to you? Has he convinced you of 
i his innocence?” 

j “ He had no need to do that. 1 never believed him guilty — 1 
1 nf ver could believe him guiltv of such a diabolical crime.*’ 

{ Tears came into her eyes as she spoke, but she dried them hastily 
J and restrained her emotion resolutely. 

“ Mr. Heatbeote, you are a lawyer, a man of the world, a man of 
|i talent and leisure. You have been one of the first to do mv kins- 
I man a cruel wrong. Can not you do something toward righting 
i him? 1 am making this appeal on my account — without Bothwell’s 
j knowledge — 1 come to you as the oldest fiiend 1 have— the one 
t fiiend outside my own home whom 1 can best trust.” 

I “ You know that 1 would give my life in your service,” be an- 
swered, wiih suppressed fervor. He dared not trust himself to say 
much. “ Yes, you have but to command me. 1 will do all that is 
possible for human intelligence to do. Bid it is a difficult case. 
The only evidence against your cousin is of so vague a nature that 
it could not condemn him before a jury— hut it is strong enough to 
brand him as a possible murderer in the opinion of thcTse who saw 
him under Mr. Distin’s examination. He can never be thoroughly 
rehabilitated until the mystery of that poor girl’s death has been 
fathomed, and 1 doubt it that will ever be. Wheie George Distin 
has failed, wilh all the detective police of London ac his command, 
how can any amateur detective hope to succeed?” 

“ Friendsliip may succeed where mere professional cleverness has 
been baffled,” argued Dora. “1 do not think that Mr. Distin’s 
heart was in this case. At least, that is the impression I derived 


72 wii^llard’s weird. 

from a few words which 1 heard him say to my husband just be- 
fore he left us.” 

“ Indeed. (Jan you recall those words?” 

Teiy nearly. He said he had done his best in the matter, and 
should not attempt to go further. And then with his cynical air he 
added, ‘ Let sleeping dogs lie, Wyllard. That is a good old say- 
ing.’ ” 

” Don’t you think that sounds rather as it he suspected your 
kinsman, and feared to bring trouble on your family by any further 
investigation of this dark business?” 

“ It never struck me in that light,” exclaimed Dora, with a dis- 
tressed look. ” Good heavens! is all the world so keen to suspect 
an innocent man? If you only knew Bothwell as I know him, you 
would be the first to lauffh this vile slander to scorn. ” 

” For your sake 1 will try and believe in him as firmly as you 
do,” answered Heathcote, and as Wyllard does, no doubt.” 

Her countenance fell, and she was silent. 

“ Your husband knows of this cloud upon your cousin’s name, 1 
suppose?” interrogated Heathcote after a pause. 

” Yes, 1 told him how Bothwell had been treated by his Bodmin 
acquaintances.” 

‘‘ And he was as indignant as you were, 1 conclude?” 

” He said very little,” answered Dora, with a pained expression. 

My regard tor Bothwell is the only subject upon which Julian 
and 1 have ever differed. He has been somewhat harsh in his judg- 
ment of my cousin ever since his return from India— he disapproved 
of his leaving the army, and he has been inclined to take a gloomy 
view of his prospects from the very first.” 

” 1 see. He has not a very high opinion of Bothwell’s moral 
character?” 

‘ ‘ I would hardly say that. But he is inclined to judge my cous- 
in ’s errors harshly, and he does not understand his noble qualities 
as 1 do. 1 should not have been constrained to ask for your help it 
Julian had been as heartily with me in this matter as he has been in 
all other things.” 

Edward Heathcote’s bronzed cheek blanched ever so little at this 
speech. It moved him deeply to think that in this one anxiety of 
her loving heart he could be more to Dora Wyllard than her hus- 
band, that she could turn to him in this trouble "with boundless con- 
fidence in his friendship. What would he not do to merit such 
CQpfidence — to show himself worthy of such trust. Already he was 
prepared to be Bothwell’s champion; he was angry with himself for 
ever having suspected him. 

”1 had another reason for appealing to you,” Dora went on, 
shyly. ‘‘1 have reason to think that Bothwell is very fond of 
Hilda — and the dearest wish of my life is to see those two united.” 

‘‘ A wish which is in a fair way of being gratified, unwillingly so 
far as 1 am concerned,” answered Heathcote. “My sister an- 
nounced to me only yesterday that there is some kind of contingent 
engagement between her and Mr. Grahame; and that, he being free 
to wed her, she means to marry him when she comes of age, with or 
wu'thout my consent. ’ 


' wyllakd’s weird. -73 

“ My Doble Hilda,” exclaimed Hora, ‘‘ yes, it is just like her to 
accept him now when all the world is against him.” 

” Say that it is just like a woman,” said Heathcote. “ There is 
a leaven ot Quixotism in all your sex, from the queen to the wife- 
beater’s victim in Seven Dials. Well, dear Mrs. Wyllard. for' 5 ^our 
sake and for Hilda^s 1 will be Quixotic. 1 will make it the busi- 
ness of my life to discovery the mystery ot that unknown girl’s 
fate. 1 will pledge myself to think of nothing else, to undertake no 
other work or duty until I have exhausted all possible means of 
discovery.” 

“ God bless you for the promise,” she answered, fervently. I 
knew that 1 had one friend in the world.” 

A sob almost choked her utterance ot those last words. She was 
i deeply wounded by her husband’s coldness in tuis matter of Both- 
well’s position. She had expected him to be as indignant as she 
w’as, to be ready to take up arms against all the world for her cous- 
in, and he had been cold, silent, and gloomy when she tried to dis- 
cuss the burning question with him. His manner had implied that 
! he, too, suspected Bolhwell, though he would not go so far as to 
I give utterance to his suspicion. 

I And now to have won over this strong advocate, this brave, true- 
hearted champion, was a relief to her mind that almost overcame 
her feelings; here where she had ever sought to preserve the calm 
1 dignity ot manner which became her as Julian Wyllard’s wife. 

I She recovered herself almost instantly. 

! ”1 thank you with all my heart,” she said, “ and 1 am sure that 

my husband will be as rejoiced as 1 shall it you can clear BothwelTs 
name from this hideous stigma.” 

Heathcote rose to take leave. He felt that the business of his 
visit was accomplished, that he had no right to linger in Dora Wyl- 
lard’s sanctum. It was the first time he had ever been admitted to 
her own particular nest, the one room in which she was secure from 
the possibility of interruption. 

” Tell Hilda to com^ and see me,” she said, as they shook hands. 
“ She has deserted mevmost cruelly of late.” 

‘ ‘ Perhaps it is better for her not to be here until her engagement 
to your cousin is on a more definite footing.” 

“Ah, there is the secret in Bothw^ell’s life— some entanglement 
which he half admitted to me the other day. He said that he was 
bound to one woman while he loved another. 1 guessed that Hilda 
was the one he loved. But who can the other be? 1 know of no 
one.” 

“ Some lady whom he met in India, no doubt. The very air of 
that country is charged with complications of that kind. If your 
cousin is a man of honor, and if we can unriddle the railway mys- 
tery. all may yet come right. Pray do not be too anxious. Good- 
by.” 

And so they parted — they, too, who once were to have spent their 
lives together. Edward Heathcote walked away from Penmorval, 
loving his old love as dearly as ev.er he had loved her in his passion- 
ate youth. He was young enough to love with youthful fervor 
even yet, although he had schooled himself to believe that youth 


74 vvyllard's weird. ^ 

was past for him. He was only thirty-six; Julian Wyllard’s junior 
nearly ten years. 

Half an hour later Dora was presiding at afternoon tea in the , 
ye^-tree arbor, wliere her husbnnd joineil her after two hours’ i 
business talk with his land-steward. The ;\^eather'was still ivarm ' 
enough for drinking lea out of doors, and this yew-tree arbor wds 
Mrs. Wyllard’s favorite retreat. Most of all she loved it when, as 
on that day, she could take her tea iHe-d-tete with her husband. ' 

“How pale and tired you are looking, Julian,” said Dora, 
scrutinizing her husband’s face anxiously as he sunk somewhat a 
wearily into the coinfoi table basket-chair she had placed ready for . 
him; “ you must want some tea very badly.” 

“ 1 always enjoy my atternoon cup, and you are the queen of tea- 
makers,” answered Wyllard; “yes, I have had a tiresome talk 
with Grelton, who is getting old and pmsy, and repeats himself in- 
ternally when he is describing the tenants’ wants and grievances. 
He can not tell me of the smallest repair wanted to a barn or pig- 
sly without giving me every syllable of his conversation with some 
garrulous old farmer, and even explaining the nature of the barn 
or the style in dumb show, ‘ as it might be this,’ * and it might be 
that.’ He maddens me with his ‘ as it might be.’ ” 

“I am afraid you are getting nervous, Julian,’' said Dora, tenderly. 

She laid her cool white hand upon his forehead, and looked con- 
cerned at the. touch. 

“ You are actually feverish. You have been irritated into a fever 
by that poor, prosy old man. ‘Why do you not superannuate Mr. 
Orel ton, and let Both well be your steward? He is much cleverer 
and more business-like than you think, and at the worst he would 
notpiose. ” ! 

“ I never thought Bothwell a fit person to look after my estate, ’ 
and 1 think him less so now,” ansvvered her husband, coldly. “ He 
is the most unpopular man in Bodmin. Do not let us talk about it 
any more. By the way, you have had a visitor this atternoon,” ; 
continued Mr. Wyllard as his wife handed him his tea. “ 1 saw 
Heathcote go past the library window while 1 was at work with 
Oietton. What brought him to Penmorval tnis afternoon?” ; 

“ 1 asked him to come,” answered Dora, veiy pale, but with a ' 
steadtast look in her eyes and about the firmly-molded lips. J 

Slie had never had a secret from her husband in her life, and al- ; 
though she had made her appeal to Edward Heathcote without his : 
advice or knowledge, she had no intention^ of leaving him unin- 
formed now tlia) the thing was done. 

“You asked him to come to you! Edward Heathcotei” ex- 
claimed Wyllard, with a surprised look. “ And may I know what 
impoitant business necessitated this interview?” ' 

“ You have a right to know all about it, Julian,” she answered, 
quietly. “1 have asked Mr. Heathcote to give me his aid in a, 
matter in whicii you have seemed unwilling to help me. You were" 
content that my cousin shoJild remain under a horrible stigma — 
shunned by those who were once his friends. 1 am not so content; 
and 1 have asked the son of my mother’s oldest and stanchest 
friend to help me. ” 

And then she told him, as briefly as possible, what kind of request 


I ' wylLard’s weird. 75 

slie bad made to Edward Heatbcote, and bow be bad promised to 
belp lier. 

Julian Wjdlard was livid with anger. He set down his cup wilb 
a band tiiat trembled like an aspen leaf; be rose from bis chair, and 
, paced the grassy space in front of the arbor backward and forward 
half a dozen times before he uttered a word. And then, coming- 
back to bis wife, be looked at her with eyes in which the savage 
passion of jealousy blazed like a demoniac fire. 

“ Why call him the son of your mother’s old friend,” be ex- 
claimed. ” What need of so awkward and ambiguous a phrase? 
Why not say at once your old lover? It is in that character you 
have thrown yourself upon him. It is as your old lr>ver that you 
try to arouse bis cbivalrj" — that you urge him to do that which 
your husband’s common sense revolted from. A husband is a rea- 
soning animal, you know. He will only attempt the practical — the 
possible. But throw your glove to the lions, and your lover will 
leap into the arena and fight tor it! And you take advantage of an 
unquenchable passion — of a despairing love— to attempt the solution 
of a problem to which the answer may be a rope round your cous- 
in’s neck.” 

“You have no right to insult me as you have done,” said Dora, 
pale as marble, but calm in her just indignation. ” You know that 
1 am your true wife, and that my friendship for Edward Heatbcote 
and his for me is above suspicion. As ti)r my Cousin Both well, 1 
know that he has been most unjustly and cruelly suspected of a 
foul crime, and 1 will not rest till the true history of that crime has 
been discovered. INotiiing but Ihe discovery of the real murderer 
can ever set Botliwell right wiih his fellow-men.” 

” Then he wdll have to remain in the wrong,” answered Wy Hard, 
savagely. “The m 5 "stery which George Distin’s training and ex- 
perience failed to fathom, will never be brought to light by your 
knight-errant of the Spaniards.” 


CHAPTER Ylll. 

AVALUABLEALLY. 

Edward Heathcote devoted his every thought to the task which 
he had taken upon himself. His first achievement must be to dis- 
cover the name and history of the murdered girl. The clew in his 
possession was of the slightest; but he was not without a clew. 

First, there was the name and address of the baker on the biscuit 
bags. Tuis gave him an indication of the part of Paris in which 
the girl must have been living before she started for England; it 
also indicated that she had left Paris within a few days of her fatal 
journey westward. ^ 

But he had a second clew, and a much better one. Within a 
week after the adjourned inquest, a farm laborer had brought him 
a large, oval, silver locket, which he had picked up in the gorge 
where tlie girl fell. The spot lay a little way oft the direct path to 
the man’s w ork. Morbid curiosity had impelled him to go and ex^ 
amine the place in the early morning before his daily labor began. 


76 


WYLLARD S AVEIllD. 


Prowling about among the f6rns and crags, be had struck bis foot 
against a glistening object, which proved to be an old silver locket 
a good deal worn and battered — a double locket, containing a waxen 
Agnus Dei, and a little lace-bordered picture of the Virgin Mary, the 
paper worn thin by much handling. 

The man carried the locket to the coroner, who rewarded him 
with half a sovereign, and laid the relic aside in his desk, after a 
minute examination. It had been attached to a black ribbon, which 
was worn and old, and had snapped with the jerk of the girl’s fall. 
Upon the locket itself there was not the faintest sign w’hich could 
lead to the identification of the wearer, but upon the little lace- 
edged engraving, there were these words neatly written in a fine 
French penmanship : — 

“ Souvenir from Sister Gudule, de la Misericorde, to Leonie, 
Dinan, October, 1879. Child of Jesus, pray for us.” 

To Edward Beathcote’s mind this brief legend indicated three facts. 

First that the Christian name of tlie w^earer of the locket was 
Leonie. Secondly, that she had been educated at a convent at 
Dinan. Thirdly, that she left the convent in October, 1879, and 
that the little paper had been placed in her locket at parting. The 
nuns have no valuable gifts to ofler their protegees at parting. An 
engraving of a saint or Blessed Virgin would be the most precious 
token holy poverty could bestow. This indication of the locket was 
the clew which Edward Hfeathcote decided to follow in the first 
instance. He made his arrangements for leaving England without 
.an hour’s delay; but before turning his back upon the Spaniards, 
he exacted Hilda’s promise that she would not see Bothwell 
Grahame during his absence. 

“ Mr. Grahame’s entanglement with another woman is an all- 
sufficient reason for your holding yourself aloof from him,” said her 
brother. “ When he is free to ask you to be his wife, let him come 
to me and submit his pretensions to me, as your natural guardian. 
Perhaps; by that time, 1 may have succeeded in setting him right 
with those who now look askance upon him!” 

Mr. Heathcote determined to call upon George Distin before he 
crossed the Channel. He had thought the question out thoroughly, 
during a sleepless night; and it seemed to him that it would be 
folly to enter upon his difficult ta^sk of investigation without having 
first armed himself with such advice as the famous criminal lawyer 
was able to give. Before acting upon his own opinion, it would be 
well to know the opinion of a disinterested expert. 

He Called at Mr. Distin’s offices the morning after his arrival in 
London. The offices were in Fui nival’s Inn, a quiet and convenient 
spot, not too far from the Old Bailey, and wdthin a ten minutes’ 
walk of the stuffy old law-courts, still extant in Chancery Lane. 
Mr. Heathcote sent in his card; and although at least half a dozen 
clients were waiting for Mr. Distin, he was admitted immediately, 
and received with marked cordiality. 

“ My dear Mr. Heathcote, charmed to see. you. How good of 
you to look me up,” exclaimed Distin, as he pushed forward the 
niost comfortable of morocco-covered arm-chairs. 


WYLLARD^S WEIRD. 


77 


There was nothing sesthelic, picturesque, or new-fangled in Mr. 
Distin's office, where the prevailing tone was a sober substantial 
comfort. Most of the furniture looked at least fifty years old; but 
the Turkey carpet was the richest that the looms of Orient can pro- 
duce; the spacious arm-chairs invited to repose, and to that ease of 
body which favors expansion Of mind and friendly candor. 

‘‘ Are you in town on business or pleasure?” inquired the lawyer, 
in his airy manner. “ Going thro’ to the North, perhaps; grouse- 
moor, eh?” 

‘‘ Nothing is further from my thoughts than shooting grouse,” 
replied Heathcote. ” I am in London on my way to the Continent. 
1 am going to hunt up the antecedents of that poor girl who was 
killed on our line — find out who she was, and how she came to be 
in the way of meeting her death in oui locality.” 

The lawyer’s airy manner was dropped in a moment, and he be- 
came intensely grave. 

” Oh, you’re going into that business, are you, and so late in the 
day. But why?” 

“ I would rather not discuss my motive, if you will kindly excuse 
me.” Mr. Dislin bowed. ”1 want to avail myself of your talent 
and experience to the uttermost before 1 begin to w^ork on ray ow^n 
account.” 

” The uttermost my talent can do for you in this matter is very 
little; to tell you the truth, 1 made a dismal failure of the business,” 
returned George Distin, with agreeable frankness. He was too suc- 
cessful a man to be ashamed to confess a failure. ” But, really, 
now% Mr. Heathcote, by far the wisest counsel 1 can give you is to 
forget all about this sad story; and to let the world go on just as it 
the poor girl’s death had never come within your ken. You did 
your duly as a coroner, you know. Nothing more could be asked 
or expected of you. Why, then, should you do more? You are 
very friendly with the family at Penmorval. Take my advice. 
* Let sleeping dogs lie.’ ” 

“ That is what you said to Mr. Wyllard the morning you were 
leaving.” 

” 1 may have used that adage. It is a very good one.” 

” And you recommend me to drop this investigation, for the sake 
of my friends at Penmorval,” said Heathcote. ” 1 infer from that 
advice that you suspect Mr. Grahame of some part in the French 
girl’s death.” 

” 1 confess to you that his whole manner and conduct were to my 
mind strongly indicative of guilt. Of course, manner and conduct 
are not evidence. At this present time there is not a shred of evi- 
ence to connect Mr. Grahame with the crime, except the one fact 
that he was in the train when the girl was killed; but that point 
would apply equally to everybody else in the train, or rather to any- 
one who happened to be alone in a carriage, as Mr. Grahame was. 
At present Mr. Wyllard’s cousin is safe. If his was the arm that 
thrust that girl off the foot-board there is nothing to bring the crime 
home to him. But go a few steps further, follow up any clew which 
you may happen to possess — you would not start upon such an in- 
vestigation without some kind of clew,” speculated George Distin, 
shrewdly—” pursue your trail a few yards further, and you may 


78 


wyllard’s weird. 


«ome upon evidence that will put a rope round your friend’s neck^ 
and bring lasting disgrace upon the family at Pennior^j-al. I advised 
my old triend Wyllatd to let this matter drop. 1 advise you to do 
the same.” 

“ I can not act upon your advice. There has been too much mis- 
chief done alread 3 ^ Mr. Grahame’s refusal to answer your ques- 
tions about his whereabouts on the day of the murder has con- 
demned him in the minds of his fellow-townsmen. His name is 
blackened by a terrible suspicion, and 1 have swoin to clear it, it it 
can be cleared. If he is guilty — well, he can hardl}^ be worse otf 
with a rope round his neck than he is now, with all his old friends 
estranged from him. For my own part, -in such a case 1 should in- 
finitely prefer the rope. It would be a short way out of a diffi- 
culty.” 

“ My experience of criminals is that when the crisis comes they 
would rather endure the ignominy than the halter,” replied Distin. 
” Perhaps you have never seen a man within an hour of his being 
hangetl?” 

“ Thank God I have not been obliged to do that, though 1 have 
had to look upon one an hour after.” 

“ Ah, then you do not know to what manhood can descend— how 
it can grovel before the specter of instant, certain death. Come now, 
can not 1 persuade you to think better of your idea of investigating 
this mysterious business?” 

” No. 1 have promised to do it. 1 must keep my promise.” 

“So be it.” 

And then Mr. Distin discussed the matter freely, with perfect 
frankness. He told Mr. Heathcote what means he had used to dis- 
cover the girl’s identity on this side of the channel. 

” I should have gone further and crossed the water, if 1 had not 
seen good reason to desist,” he said, when he had explained his plan 
of inquiry at every likely lodging-house, and how the plan had 
totally failed. 

‘‘ But what would you have done on the other side of the water, 
without any clew?” 

” 1 should have gone across myself and put the case into the hands 
of Monsieur Drubarte, one of the cleverest police officers in Paris. 
He would have been instantly on the alert lo hear of any application 
made to the police by the relatives and friends of the missing girl. 
She could hardly disappear for any length of time without someone 
being concerned by her disappearance. The application to the police 
might not occur perhaps until months after her death; but it would 
be likely to occur 'sooner or later. And again Monsieur Drubarte 
has his allies in every quarter of Paris. lie hears of events so 
quickly that it might be supposed he had a network of speaking 
tubes all over the city. With his help 1 should have* been almost 
certain to arrive at the identification of the dead girl.” 

” But I sent three advertisements to each of . the best known Paris 
newspapers,” said Heathcote. ” How do you account for those 
advertisements not having been seen by the girl’s friends?” 

” Jiecause French people of the lower classes are sometimes very 
illiterate, and Jive in a very narrow circle. Your papers may not 
have come within the range of the girl’s friends. They would be 


wyllabd’s weird. 79 

likely to apply to tl)e police when time passed and they received rxo 
tid:n^>;s of her. But they would not be likely to see your best known 
papers — the papers of the upper classes, no doubt. And then your 
adveitisements appeared immediately after the ffirFs death; at a time 
when the parents or friends had no leason for feeling alarmed as to 
her safety.’' 

“ Thai may be so,” replied Heathcote, thoughtfully. “ 1 think 
you can help me very much in my undertaking, Mr. Distin, if you 
are willing to do it.” 

“In what way.” 

Give me a letter of introduction to this Parisian detective, and 
let me engage his aid. by and by, when 1 go to Paris. 1 shall be 
happy to pay him liberally for his services.” 

“ Drubarle is no extortioner. He will not fleece you,” said Dis- 
tin. “ In fact, the man is a geniJeman, in his own particular line. 
Acs, 1 will give you a letter of introduction to him wilh pleasure, 
since you are bent on pursuing this business to the bitter end. I 
suppose you will go straight to Paris?” 

“ No. 1 want first to follow up the only valuable clew I have. 
1 shall go first to Dinan, in Brittany, to find the convent where I 
have reason to believe this poor girl was educated.” 


CHAPTER IX. 

FEVER DREAMS. 

Mr. Heathcote left Waterloo Station lor Southampton v/ithin 
an hour of leaving Mr. Distin’s office, dined hastily at the Dolphin 
Hotel, and started tor St. Malo in the South-western steamer at 
seven o’clock in the evening. It was still early on the following 
morning wdien he landed on the long stone quay at St. Malo, and 
the picturesque old granite walls were still flushed with the rosy 
light of a newly-risen sun. The quaint island citadel, wilh its ex- 
quisiie bay and golden sands, had been familiar to Edward Heath- 
cote in the past. He had lingered here to rest after a long ramble 
in Brittany, and he had an affection for the steep, narrow streets and 
quaint old houses, with their all-pervading aspect of the seventeenth 
cenlurv. the days of Bourbons and Condes, kings and warriors, 
princely priests and princely politicians. 

Well, as he loved the old-world town, Mr. Heathcote had no in- 
tention of loitering there on this September morning, lovely as the 
bay and the rocks and the smiling colony of white-walied villas 
yonder at Parame looked in the early sunlight. He only waited to 
see his portmanteau through the custom house in order to carry it 
to the little office attached to the Dinan steamer, where he ascer- 
tained the hour for the boat’s departure. 

Chance and tide favored him. The steamer was to leave at eleven 
o’clocK. This afforded time tor a leisurely breakfast at the Frank- 
lin, and would enable him to reach Dinan early in the afternoon. 
He breakfasted briefly and temperately, as became a man whose 
mind was full of anxious thought, and then went for a strofi in the 
old streets, and looked in at the cathedral. 


80 


WYLLAUirS WEIKD. 

He had reflected seriously upon his interview with the criminal 
lawyer. The fact that he had found his own ori^^inal opinion about 
Botiiwell Grahame shared by this man, so deeply versed in the ways 
of criminals, in the science of circumstantial evidence, was lo the 
last degree startling and disconcerting. He felt that he was setting 
out upon a task that he could but perform in a half-hearted manner, 
struggle as he might against that first conviction of his. He had 
undertaken this task for Hilda’s sake, for Dora’s sake. 'What mis- 
ery must result if George Distin were right after all, and in an ill- 
judged attempt to gratify these two trusting women he should bring 
about the actual discovery of Bothwell’s guilt. That guilt was at 
present but a dark suspicion which men hardly dared hint to each 
other; but if George Distin’sjudgment was correct, any unlucky dis 
covery might make the suspicion a fact. 

But he'h^ad promised, and the pledge must be kept. He must fol- 
low up the clew which he held till it led him to other links in the 
chain of the victim’s history; and the chances were that in the vic- 
tim’s history he would find a clew to the murderer’s identity. 

It was a lovely autumnal noontide, and the ga}" little town of 
Dinard, with its gardens rising stage above stage against the hill-side, 
its queer little bays and recesses of golden sand, was smiling in the 
sunlight as the “ Isle et Ranee ” steamed across the broad bay of 
St. Malo to the mouth of the Ranee. There are few prettier rivers 
than this little Rhine of Brittany, and Edward Healheote had loved 
it well in days gone by. But to-day he sat ypon the bridge smok- 
ing his cigar, and gazing at the green hills and hanging woods, the 
villas and villages, and craggy cliffs and ever-varying shore, with- 
out seeing the objects upon which his eyes seemed to rest. The 
nearer he came to the task of investigation, the more irksome be- 
came his duly. His heart failed him as he took out the eilver 
locket, and read the name upon the paper inside. It was the name 
of the woman who was to enlighten him about the dead girl, who 
was perhaps to put in his hand the clew which would lead him 
straight to the murderer. 

And yet who could say that he would find Sister Gudule de la 
Misericorde at Dinan? He did not even know the name of the con- 
vent in which she lived. She might be dead. And yet the date of 
the inscription'was but two years old. There was every chance that 
the sister still lived, and he must be dull if he failed lo find her. 

He stopped at the first church to which he came after leaving the 
boat — an old church in the lower part of the town. Here he asked 
his way to the- presbytery, and called upon the priest, who told him 
that there was only one educational convent in or near Dinan, the 
Convent of Saint Elizabeth of Hungary, an Ursiiline convent situ- 
ated two miles from the town, in the direction of the famous mon- 
astery mad-house. 

Mr. Heathcote left the portmanteau at one of the hotels in the 
market-place, and drove at once m the convent, which was beauti- 
fully situated amidst the wooded hills on the western side of the 
town, and commanded a noble view of the valley, and the river and 
the gray old town with its quaint roofs and many towers. It was 
a large white building, with plastered walls, far from beautiful in 
itself, and showing every sign of poverty; but the gardens were 


WYLLARD’s WEIKD. ' 81 

neatly kept, the rooms were exquisitely clean, and the clumsy old 
Breton fiiriiiture was polished to the hi^^hest degree. 

Mr. Heathcote was received in the convent parlor by the reverend 
mother, a homely little tub-shaped personage in a black serge habit 
and a picturesque white cap which concealed every vestige of hair 
upon her broad, intelligent forehead. She had kindly black eyes 
and a fiank, benevolent smile, and Heathcote felt at once at his 
eqse with her. She looked a little disappointed when, in answer to 
her preliminary question, he told her that he had not come to offer 
a new pupil. The pupils were the chief source of revenue for the 
convent, albeit the 'pension was of the smallest. 

“ Have you ever seen that locket before, madame?” he asked, 
laying the silver medallion before the reverend mother. 

“ 1 have seen many such,” she answered. ” The Holy Father 
allows us to dispose of tifem tor the benefit of the convent.” 

” There is a little paper inside with some writing. Will yomlook 
at it, please?” 

She opened the locket and unfolded the paper. 

” Yes, this is Sister Gudule’s writing. 1 know it very well in- 
I deed,” said the nun, looking at her visitor with a curibusly puzzled 
1 air, as if wondering whether the gentleman had not gone a little 
i astray, his real destination being the great monastic mad-house yon- 
I der on the crest of an opposite hill. 

” Sister Gudule is still living— still with you, perhaps?” 

“Yes?” interrogatively. 

i “And you remember Leonie, to whom that little picture was 
given?” 

The reverend mother smiled her modest smile. 

“ Leonie is not an uncommon name,” she replied. “We have 
had many pupils so called from time to time. Our school numbers 
over a hundred and fifty pupils, you must remember.” 

“ 1)0 you recall any pupil of that name who left you two years 
ago?” asked Heathcote. 

“We have from thirty to forty pupils leaving us every year. 
Will you permit me to ask the object of your inquiry?” 

“ It is a very serious one, or I should be desolated" to give you so 
much trouble,” answered Heathcote, courteously, in that polite 
language ^hich bespoke almost as fluently as his native English. 
“ The poor girl to whom that locket belonged met her death in my 
neighborhood less than two months ago. She fell from a railway- 
carriage as the train was crossing a viaduct. Whether that death . 
was accidental or the result of a crime, remains as jmt unknown. 
But there are those in my country to whom it is vital "that the whole 
, truth should be known. If you can help me to discover the truth, 
you will be helping the cause of justice.” 

“ Sister Gudule will remember,” said the reverend mother, ring- 
ing a bell. “ She is one of our lay sisters, a great favorite with all 
the children. She nurses them when they are ill, and takes care of 
them when they go out for a holiday, and plays with them as if vShe 
were a child herself.” 

A lay sister, the portress, answered the bell, and went in quest of 
Sister Gudule. 

“ She has a very unprepossessing appeairance,” said the reverend 


S2 \VYLLA1LL>*S WEIKl). ,, 

mother. “ 1 tear you may be a little shocked at first seeintj; her, ^ 
but she is so amiable that we all adore her. She has been the vie- ! 
tim of misfortune from her cradle. Her deformity is the conse- 
iquence of a nurse’s carelessness. It turned the heart of her mother ^ 
from her, and she was a neglected and unloved child. Her family 
was noble, but the husbaud speculated in railways, and the wife jj 
was silly and extravagant. By the time Gudule was a young; 
woman, poverty had overtaken her father; and he was only too gjpd i 
to acquiesce in the girl’s resolution to enter a convent. She came to 
us penniless thirty years ago, and has worked for her bread ever | 
since. I do not think 1 exagjgerate when 1 say that she is the most 
valuable member of our community.” 

The door was opened softly, and Sister Gudule appeared. This 
little preface from the reverend mother had not been unnecessary to ' 
lessen the shock of her personal appearance, which was startling in » 
its unqualified ugliness. ' 

Sister Gudule de la Misericorde was the very type of* the wicked ^ 
fairy in the dear old child stories. She was short and squat, with i 
broad shoulders and a decided hump. She had a nose like a potato, ; 
and a lower lip like that of 'the lady who moistened the spinster’s ^ 
yarn; she had an undeniable mustache and beard; but, in spite of ' 
all, there was something pleasant, conciliating, reassuring, in her 
face. The low, broad forehead suggested iuteJlectual i)ower; there j 
was a humorous twinkle in the small gray eyes, as of one who could ^ 
revel in a joke; the thick under-lip and prominent under-jaw were 
the indications of a boundless benevolence. 

The reverend mother narided the locket and its inclosure to Sister 
Gudule. 

” I must tell you that the sisfer has -a most miraculous memory,” 
she said confidentially to Heathcote. ” 1 have never known her for- i 
get the most trivial event in the history of our lives. She is our un- : 
written calendar.” 

“It is Leonie Lemarque’s locket,” said Sister Gudule. “How, 
came it here? Is my little Leonie in DinanY” ^ 

“ Leonie Lemarque.” How glibly she pronounced the name, and" 
how strange it seemesd to Edward Heathcote to hear it. Like a ' 
name out of a turnb. 

“ The owner of that locket is dead,” he answered, gently. ■ 

“Dead. Leonie Lemarque. Dead at nineteen years old I Dead!' 
Why, there was not a healthier child in the convent after we had ; 
once built up her constitution. She was in a sad way when she ! 
came to us. ” 

“Leonie Lemarque,” repeated the reverend mother; “1 never" 
tliouglit of her when monsieui showed me the locket. Leonie Le- 
marquel Yes, she left us in 1879 to go to her old grandmother 
Paris. And now she has met with a violent death in England, i 
Monsieur will tell you.” 

Monsieur repealed his story, this time with further details, for; 
Sister Gudule questioned him closely. She would have every par- 1 
ticular. The tears streamed down her cheeks, and hung upon her, 
bristly mustache. She was deeply distressed. ] 

“You don’t know how 1 loved that child,” she said, excusing 
herself to the Superior, and then to Heathcote, “ Ah, monsieur, you 


wyleard’s weird. 


83 


could never understand how 1 loved her. 1 saved her life. From 
the weakest, frailest creature 1 made her a sound and healthy child. 
Indeed, ] may say that 1 did much more than this. With the help 
of God and his saints 1 saved her mind.” 

” It is quite true,” said the reverend mother. ” The child/ came 
to us under peculiar circumstances. Sister Gudule took entire 
charge of her for the first six months.” 

“And she rewarded me tor my' trouble,” added Gudule, “she 
gave me love lor love, measure for measure.” 

“ Will you tell me all about her— -every detail? The knowledge 
may help me to avenge her death,” said Heathcote, eagerly. ‘ It 
is my belief, and that of others, that she was foully murdered.” 

He was intensely agitated. He felt as it he had taken into his 
hand the lever tvhich w'orked some formidable machine— an instru- 
ment of death and doom, and that (very movement of his hand 
might bring destruction. Yet the process once begun must go on. 
He was no longer an individual working of his ov,n free will: he 
was only an agent in the hands of Fate. 

“ Wiilinglv, we will tell you all we can,” said the reverend 
mother. “ But you must allow us to offer you a little coffee. You 
have traveled, and you look white and weary.” 

The convent was proud of its coffee, almost the only refreshment 
ever ofiered to visitors. The portress brought a little oval tray cov- 
ered with a snow-white napkin, a little brown earthen pot, a white 
cup and saucer — all of the humblest, but spotlessly clean. 

“ Leonie was with u^ seven 3 ^ears,” said the reverend mother, 
while Sister Gudule dried her eyes and tried to regain her compos- 
ure. “ She was just ten years old when she was brought to us by 
her grandmother, a person who had been at one time a dressmaker 
in one of the most fashionable quarters of Paris, but who had fallen 
upon evil days, and lived in a very humble way in a small lodging 
on the left bank of the Seine. Leonie was an orphan, the daughter 
of Madame Lemarque’s only son, who died young, broken-hearted 
at the death of his young wife. The child was brought to us by a 
priest, who came ah tlie way from Paris with his little charge. She 
had but just recovered from a long illness, which w’as said to be 
braiti fever, caused by a very terrible mental shock which she had. 
endured two months before.” 

“Were you told the nature of that shock?” 

“No; the priest did not offer an 3 ’’ information upon that point,, 
and 1 did not presume to question him. He assured me. that the 
case was one which merited the most benevolent consideration 
Madame Lemaique had no means of educating the child herself, nor 
could she afford the pension demanded by a Parisian convent. The 
cure thought that our fine air would do much to restore the child to 
health and strength, and he knew that our S 3 ^steffi of education was 
• calculated to develop her mind and character in the right direction. 
He guaranteed the regular payment of the child's pension, and we 
never had occasion to apply for it a second time.” 

“ Did Madame Lemarque ever come to see her granddaughter?” 

“ Never. Leonie remained with us from year’s end to year’s end 
till after her seventeenth birthday, when, at Madame Lemarque’s 


84 


wyllard's weird. 


desiie, we made arrangement? for her traveling to Paris with other 
piil)ils who were returning to the great city.'* 

‘ Then you never saw Madame Lemarque?” 

“ IN ever.’' 

“Nor ever heard from her directly?” 

“ Oh, yes, we had letters — very nicely- written letters— full of 
gratitude for what Madame Lemarqiie was pleased to call our kind- 
ness to Leonie. The child used to write to her grandmother month- 
ly, and her letters were the best evidence that she was fairly used 
and happ 3 ^’' 

“ She was a sweet child,” said Gudule,- “ and deserved every in- 
dulgence.” 

“ Did she ever tell you anything about the shock which caused 
her illness?” asked Heath cote of the lay sister. 

“ In her right senses never one syllable,” answ^ered Gudule. “ 1 
would not have questioned her upon that subject for worlds, for 1 
believed that she had narrowly escaped madness. But duringjhe 
six months in which 1 nursed her — for her health was completely 
broken, and it required all that time to build up her strength and 
calm her nerves— she used to sleep in a little bed close to min^, and 
in her troubled dreams 1 used to hear very strange thinss. How’ 
far the dreams were inspired by the recollections of real events 1 can 
not say, but there were phrases that recurred so often, a horrible 
vision which so continually repeated itself, like a scene iii a play., 
that 1 can but suppose it to have been the representation 01 some 
event which had really happened before the child’s w^aking eyes.” 

“ Can 3 ^ou recall tlie nature of the vision?’' inquired Heathcote, 
breathlessly. 

It seemed to him that he was on the threshold of a new mystery — 
as terrible as the old one, and even darker as a tragedy hidden in the 
past, efliected only in a child’s fever-dream. 

“ You should ask me if 1 can forget it, monsieur?” said Sister 
Gudule. ” 1 wish with all my heart that I could. 1 have prayed 
many a prayer for forgetfulness. The poor child used to be slightly 
feverish every night — a low fever, which only came on in the even- 
ing, but some nights were worse than others— and in her most 
feverish nights this dream seemed almost inevitable. 1 used to lie 
awake expecting it, dreading it.” 

• “ She used to talk in her sleep, then?” 

“ To talk, yes. And to scream — a terrible shriek sometimes, 
which would disturb ever}^ sleeper in the great dormitory adjoining 
my little room. She would start up on her pillow, and stare straight 
before her with wide open eyes, being fast asleep all the same, you 
understand. ‘ Don’t kill her, don’t kill her,’ she would cry: ‘ don’t 
shoot her.’ And then she would rock herself backward and for- 
w’ard, and moan in a low voice, ‘ The forest, the dark, dark forest 
— take away the blooH’ Her w^ords varied som^imes, but those 
words never—' Take away the dark forest — take away the blood!’ ” 

“ And did she ever tell you what the dream meant--you, her 
nurse and comforter, with whom she must have been on such con- 
fidential terms?” 

“No; dear child. She loved me and trusted me with all the 
strength of her innocent heart, I believe; but she never told me the 


wyllard’s weird. 


85 


cause ol that awful dream. Aud 1 never dared to question her. I 
was only anxious that she should forget the past — that it her nights 
were fevered and restless, her days, would be peaceful and bright. 1 
did everything 1 could to amuse and interest her, in studies, needle- 
work, and play, and to help her to forget the pash’* 

“ And you succeeded, sister,’’ said the head of the convent; ap- 
provingly. “ 1 never saw a more wonderful cure. From a nervous, 
h 3 ^sterical child' Leonie Lematque grew into a bright, merry girl.” 

“ Yes, with God’s help she was cured, but the cure was very 
slow. The shock which sliattered her health and for a time impaired 
her mind must have been an awtul one. Never before had 1 seen 
gray hairs upon the head of a child, but the thickly curling hair 
upon Leonie’s temples when she came to us was patched with white, 
and it was years before the hair resumed its natural color. For the 
first year her memory was almost a blank. It would have been 
useless lor any one to attempt to leach her in class with the other 
children. She would been despised as an idiot, laughed at perhaps 
and ker heart broken. 1 obtained the reverend mother’s permission 
to keep her in my room, and to teach her in my own way, and little 
by little.I awakened her memory and her mind. Both had been as 
it were benumbed, frozen, paralyzed, by that awful shock of which 
we know so little.” 

‘‘But you would guess that she had witnessed s6me dreadful 
scene; perhaps the death of some one she loved,” speculated Heaih- 
cote. “ Did she never talk to you of her childhood in Paris, her 
relatives?” 

“Rarely of any one except her grandmother,” answered ISister 
Gudule; “ and of her she told me very little. Whether her illness 
had blotted out the memory of her childhood, or whether she shrunk 
from any allusion to the past, 1 can not tell. One day 1 asked her 
who had given her a blue satin neckerchief which 1 found in her 
trunk — a costly neckerchief, and much too fine for a child to wear. 
She told me that it was a New Year’s gift from her aunt, but at the 
mention of the name she turned deadly pale, her eyes filled with 
tears, and her whole body shook like an aspen leaf. 1 changed the 
conversation that moment, and 1 never again heard her mention her 
aunt.” 

“You would infer from her agitation that the aunt was connected 
with the tragedy of the child’s life?” 

“ Yes, monsieur.” 

“ Was perhaps the person whom she saw assailed when she cried 
out, ‘ Don’t kill her; don’t shoot her ’?” 

“1 have thought that it must have been so. That dreadful cry of 
hers, ‘ Take away the blood— take away the dark forest!’ No one 
who did not hear those cries of hers, no one who did not see the 
awful expression of her eyes— staring, dilated, full of horror; no 
one who had not seen and heard her as 1 did, could ever understand 
how dreadful, how real that vision was to me as well as to the 
sleeper. I used to feel as it 1 had seen murder done, and had been 
powerless to prevent it.” 

“ In a word, you felt, by pure sympathy, almost exactly what the 
child felt?” said Heathcote. 

Already he had begun to adore Sister Gudule, just as the children 


86 


wyllakd’s weird. 


of fhe Gonvent adored her. Be forgot her hump, he forgave her the , 
potato- shaped nose, he accepted her beard as a detail that gave 
piquancy to her countenance. He was subdued, subjugated by that 
intensely sympathetic nature which revealed itself iu every word 
and look of the lay sister. 

But he had a task to perform, and it was necessary that he should 
pi'oceed with his inquiries in a business-like manner. He had al- ^ 
ready taken certain notes in his pocket-book. 

“ Leonie Lernarque left you in 1679, and she had been wi‘h you 
seven years,'' he said, with a pencil in hand. “ She must have 
come to you in 1872?" 

" Yes, it was in 1872, not long after the troubles in Paris. It was 
early in November she was brought to us." 

" And you were told that she had been ill two months in con- 
sequence of a mental shock?" I 

" Yes." 

" Then one may fairly conclude that the event which caused her i 
illness occurred early in the September of 1872?" { 

"1 think so." ■ 

“ Good. 1 thank you most heartily, madame," with a courteous ] 
bow to the reverend mother, " for the help you and Sister Gudule j 
have so graciously bestowed upon me. But 1 would venture to ask ] 
a further favor, namely, that you would honor me with a line by | 
way of introduction to the worthy priest who brought Leonie 
Lernarque from Paris." i 

" Alas, monsieur, that is impossible. Father Sorbier died three ' 
years ago, just a year before Leonie left us." 

" That is unfortunate. He doubtless knew the mystery of the 
girl’s childhood, and perhaps might have helped me to unravel the 
secret of her strange death." 

‘‘ Do you really believe that the two events have any 'bearing upon 
each other, monsieur?" demanded Sister Gudule, thoughtfully. ; 

" I know not, madame," replied Healhcote, “ but it is only by ' 
working back vard that 1 can hope to arrive at any clew to the mys- > 
tery which has puzzled us all in Cornwall. That poor girl must ' 
have had some purpose in going to England, in traveling to so i 
remote a neighborhood as ours. Even if her death were an accident, 
or an unpremeditated crime, her presence in that place can not have ^ 
been accidental." 

Mr. Heath cote asked to see the class-rooms and the chapel before 
he left the convent, a request which was graciously accepted, as a • 
compliment to the reverend mother. He waspaiaded along wide , 
and airy passages, was shown an empty refectory, where plates and ' 
mugs, huge piles of bread and butter were arrayed on long deal ■ 
tables, covered with snow-white linen, in readiness for the afternoon ' 
gouter. He saw the chapel with its humble decoi aliens, its some- : 
what crude copy of a well-known Guido, its altar rich in gilded ^ 
paper, home-made lace, and cheap china vases. All here spoke of ^ 
small means, but the flowers on the altar were freshly gathered, and 
the neatness and cleanliness of all things in chapel and convent 9 
charmed the stranger’s eye. He had slipped a couple of sovereigns m 
into the box by the door, praised the airy corridors, the spacious m 


wyllard's weird. 87 

white- washed rooms, and left the principal and the lay sister alike 
charmed witli his good French and bis friendly manners. 

The clock of the monastery on the opposite hill was chiming five 
as he drove away 'from the convent, a silvery chime to be heard as 
far as Dinan. 

He dined at the iahle-d'Mie at the Hotel de la Poste, and walked 
on tiie terrace on the town Walls after dinner. There is no fairer 
view in Brittany than the panorama of wooded hills from that walk 
above the town walls. The cool night air, the silvery moonlight 
soothed Edward Heathcote’s nerves. He was able to meditate upon 
his afternoon’s work, to think over the story he had heard -from 
Sister Gudule, and to speculate upon the chances of his being able 
to follow up this thread of a life history until it led him to some 
point which would throw light upon the mystery of Leonie Lc- 
marque’s death. 

Reflecting upon Sister Gudule’s story, he could but cf qclude that 
the child Leonie had been the witness of some scene of violence in 
which a woman had been the victim — a murder possibly, or it might 
be only an attempted murder! Blood had been spilled— for that 
awful cry, “ Take away the blood, take away the dark forest” — a 
child’s appeal to some unknown power to remove an object of ter- 
ror. 

One and one only clew had he obtained from Sister Gudule as to 
the person of the victim, and even that indication might be a false 
liirht leading him astray. 

.The girl’s painful emotion at the utterance of her aunt’s name 
suggested that the victim had been that aunt. The mere mention 
of that name would conjure up all the horror of that scene which 
had so nearly wrecked the child's reason. 

it, therefore, seemed plain to Edward Healhcote’s mind that a 
murder, or an attempt at murder, had been committed in a dark 
wood, and that the victim hafi been Leonie Lemarque’s aunt. So 
deeply interested was he in this mystery of ten years back, so pow- 
erfully moved by this strange story of a child’s suffering, that he 
almost forgot that the business which had brought him across the 
Channel was to find out the true story of the French girl’s death, 
and not to unravel the mystery of this old and perhaps forgotten 
crime in the unknown wood. So interested was he that he resolved 
at any cost of trouble to himself to discover the details of the scene 
reproduced so often in the child’s fevered dreams. 

” Who knows whether that may not be the surest way of arriving 
at the truth about the girl’s death?” he argued with himself. “ At 
any rate, it is the only way that offers itself at present.” 

He walked late upon the walls of Dinan, enjoying the quiet of 
the moonlit scene, bearing the bells chime again and again, silver 
clear across the vale, from the monastery where the madmen were 
dreaming their fevered dreams, or wandering sane and heated in 
the spirit-land of the past amid the faces of friends long dead. lie 
walked late, thinking of a face that had looked at him with trust- 
ing eyes in a moment of parting, lovely eyes whose every expression 
he knew, but most of all that tender pathetic look which had once 
tried to soothe the agony of loss. 

” To serve her and work for her, surely that is enough for a 


88 


wyllajid’s weird. 


man's bliss,” he thought, with a half s*atirical smile. “ In the good 
old days of chivalry her knight would have deemed it happiness ta 
bleed and perish tor her sake far away in Palestine — glory and 
honor enough to have worn her colors in his helmet. Are we a 
meaner race, we men of the present, that we can not, love without 
hope of reward? Well, 1 have pledged myself to my crusade. 1 
have put on my lady’s colors, and 1 will work for her as faithfully 
as if my love were not hopeless. 1 will prove to her that there is 
some chivalry still left, in this degenerate world, under the modern 
guise of disinterested friendship.” 

He started for Paris by the first train next morning, a fourteen 
hours’ journey, a journey of dust and weariness, though the roads lay 
through a fair country, with frequent glimpses of the blue sea, and 
then by the broad widening river till the tall houses and the many 
church towers of the great city glimmered whitely before him under 
the September noon. He put up at his old resting-place, the Hotel de 
Bade, amidst the roar and bustle of the Boulevard, and he set out 
the next morning after an early breakfast in quest of M. Drubarde’s 
apartment, which was situated in that older and shabbier Paris of 
the left bank. 

M. Hrubarde’s apaitment was on the Quai des Grands Augustins, 
au cinquiemes, a rather alarming indication to infirm or elderly 
legs, but which did not appall Edward Heathcote. He ran lightly 
up the five flights of a dark wooden staircase, and found himself 
upon an airy landing, lighted and ventilated by a skylight. 

The skylight was half open, and through it Mr. Heathcote saw 
flowers and greenery upon the roof. He also caught the odor of a 
very decent cigar, which the soft west wind blew toward him 
through the same opening. 

On a door opposite the top of the steep fifth flight appeared a brass 
plate, with the name, Felix Drubarde. 

lie rang, and his summons was answ^ered almost instantly from 
an unexpected direction. 

A large, round, rubicund face peered through the skylight, and a 
voice asked if monsieur desired an interview with Felix Drubarde. 

”1 have come here in that hope, monsieur,” answered Heath- 
cote, ‘‘and 1 venture to infer that 1 have the honor of addressing 
Monsieur Drubarde.” 

” 1 am that individual, monsieur,” replied the rubicund gentle- 
man, opening the skylight to its widest extent. ‘‘ Would it be too 
much to ask you to ascend to my summer salon upon the leads? It 
is pleasanter even for a business interview than the confinement of 
tour walls.” 

There was a steep straight ladder against the wall immediately 
upon* the' skylight. Mr. Heathcote mounted this, and emerged 
upon the root, .face to face with Felix Drubarde. 

The retired police-officer’s appearance was essentially rustic. His 
attire resembled the holiday costume of the station des haines rather 
than the normal garb of a great, busy metropolis. He was clothed 
from head to foot in white linen, his garments were all of the loos- 
est, and he wore a pair of ancient buff slippers, which had doubtless 
often trodden the bitter, biting. foam on the beach of Dieppe, or the 
sands of Tfouville. Altogether M. Dubarde looked the very pict- 


'wyllakd's weird. 


89 


uie ot corafort and coolness on this warm September morninsj. El (9 
had made for himself a garden upon a fair open space of flat leaded 
roof, which was belted round with chimney-stacks of all shapes and 
sizes, just as a iawn is girdled with good old oaks and beeches. On 
one side of his garden he had rigged up a lattice work from chim- 
ney to chimney, and his nasturtiums and Virginia creepers had 
clothed the lattice with green and gold. This he called his allee 
'oertCy and he declared that it reminded him of Fontainebleau in the 
days of the famous Diana. 

His open garden was gorgeous with geraniums and roses and 
perfumed with mignonette and honeysuckle. He had his morning 
coliee bn a little iron table, he had a wicker-work easy-chair for 
himself, and another for a friend, and a smart rug, of the usual 
gaudy pattern to be seen in French lodging-houses, was spread for 
his slippered feet. He had his cigars, and his newspaper, and, 
above all, he had a large and ancient black poodle, of uncanny 
aspect, which looked as it he were the very dog under whose aspect 
the arch-fiend visited Dr. Faustus. 

Before seating himself in the basket-chair which M. Drubarde 
offered him, Mr. Heathcote took George Distin’s letter out of his 
pocket-book, and handed it to the ex-police officer, who became 
convulsive with rapture when he saw the signature. 

“ Monsieur was welcome on his own account as a doubtless dis- 
tinguished Englishman; as the friend of Monsieur Distin he is more 
than welcome. His visit is an honor, a privilege, which an old 
member of the Paris police can not too highly value,’' said Drubarde, 
with enthusiasm. “Ah, monsieur, what a man is that George 
Distin! what a commanding genius! 1 have had the honor (o assist 
him in cases wdiere that mighty genius revealed itself with startling 
force, and where l am , proud to say, he must inevitably have failed 
but for my humble assistance. Yes, monsieur, old Drubarde has a 
flair which even your great English lawyer envies. What a man, 
all the samel” M. Drubarde paused for breath, 'and also to offer 
Mr. Eleathcote a cigar, which was frankly accepted. And then the 
police-officer continued his eulogy of the English lawyer, with 
which he contrived to interweave a little gentle egotism. 

“ Had he been a Frenchman, and lived under the first emperor, 
he would have been greater than the Duke of Otranto, whom my 
father had the privilege to serve, and whom 1 remember seeing 
when 1 was a child. My father took me into the great chief’s office 
one day, a little toddling creature, chubby, and, 1 am told, beauti- 
ful, in my blue uniform of the old guard, a mother’s fond fancy, 
inoiisieur; the mothers of France love to dress their children as 
toys. The duke laid his hand upon my golden hair. ‘ What a 
lovely boy,’ he exclaimed, deeply moved by my infantine beauty. 

* 1 prophesy a brilliant future for him. This child will go far.’ 1 
hope, monsieur, that his after-life has not belied the great man’s 
prophec3^” 

. “ Mr. Distin assures me that you have won distinction in your 
calling,” replied Heathcote, wondering how long the old gentle- 
man’s recollections of childhood were going .to last. “ Your narra- 
tive takes me back to a period that is classical.. It assures me also 
that you who so vividly remember the events of sixty years ago — ” 


90 wyllaiid's weird, 

“ More than sixty, monsieur. 1 am past seventy years of age, 1 
who speak lo j^ou.'’ 

Mr. tleathcote put on an appropriate expression ot wonder. 

“ \yith such a memory lor the leniole past, it will hardly trouble 
you to recall the eveots of ten years ago,” he continued, very eager 
to come lo the point. ” Now, exactly ten years ago, in this very 
month of September, there was a brutal murder, or attempted 
murder, of a woman in a wood near Paris — ” 

‘‘ Do you mean the murder of Marie Prevol, the actress, in the 
forest ,of Saint Germain?” inquired the police-officer. ”1 was 
engaged in that case. A very strange story.” 

” And the woman was really murdered?” asked Heatbeote, pale 
with agitation. 

He was confounded by the ease with which the man fixed upon 
A notorious crime upon a given date. It would have surprised him 
less to find that the child’s vision of murder was a mere fever dream 
— the repetition of one morbid hallucination — than to hear oi the 
reality, here, otf-hand, in the broad light of Jay. 

” Really murdered! yes, and her lover too, as dead as the Pha- 
raohs. There never was a more real crime, a more determine d,. 
audacious murder. The actress and her lover had gone to Saint 
German for a holida}" jaunt. They went by rail, dined at the Henri 
Quatre, hired a carriage in the cool of the evening, drove on the 
ten ace, and then into the forest. They left the carriage at a point 
where there were cross-roads, and pursued their ramble on toot.” . 

” There was a child with them?” interrogated Heathcote, breath- 
lessly. 

” Yes, a little girl, tliQ actress’s niece. She was the only witness 
of the crime. It w-as from her lips that the Jvge d' Instruction took 
down the history of the scene. They were walking quetlyinthe 
twulight, it was nearly dark, the child said, and she was beginning 
40 feel frightened. The lovers were walking arm in arm, the child 
by her aunt’s side. Suddenly a man sprung out upon them from 
the darkness of the wood, and confronied them with a pislol in his 
hand. He wore no hat, and he looked wild and furious. He aimed 
first at the man, who tell wiihout a gman. The girl had just tim& 
to call out to him not to shoot her aunt when he tired a second time, 
and then a third and a fourth, and again, quicker lliati the (hihl 
could count. It was evidently a six-chambered revolver. Marie 
Prevol was found with her breast riddled with bullets. The driver 
heard the shots from his post at tlie cross-roads.” 

” And was the murderer never found?” 

‘‘No. In spite ot his weird appearance, his bare head, he got 
clean oft, and all the police of Paris failed in tracing him.” 

But was there no one suspected of the crimr;?” 

” Yes. There was a former lover ot Marie’s, her first lover, and^ 
as it was said, the only man she had ever really cared for. They 
had been a devoted couple— were supposed by some lo be married 
^and until a short time befoie the murder Marie’s character had 
been considered almost stainless. Then a younger admirer appeared 
on the scene. There were violent quarrels. The actress seemed to 
have lost her head, to be infatuated by this aristocratic lover, one 
of the handsomest men in Paris, had known him only a few 


wyllaed’s weird. 


91 


nbonths when they went for this jaunt to St. Grcrmain —a stolen ad- 
venture. They were supposed to have been followed by the other 
man, and that (he murdt-r was an act of jeaU)U8 madness.’^ 

“ And the crime was never bronjrht home to him?’' 

*‘Wever. Beyond the tact of his relations with Mademoiselle 
Prevol, and of his disappearance immediately after the murder, 
there was nothing to connect him with the crime.” 

“ I thought it was difficult— indeed almost impossible— for any 
man to leave France without the knowledge of the police.” 

” It is difficult; and at that time it was particularly ilifficult, as 
the crimes ot the Commune were still of recent date, and the police 
were more ihan usually alert. But this man did it. All the great 
railway stations and the seaports were closely walched tor the ap- 
peararce ot such a man among the departures, but he was never 
identified.” 

” And you have no doubt in your own mind that this man was 
the murderer?” 

” Not the shadow of doubt. There was no one else who had any 
motive for assailing Marie and her admirer. Except in her relation 
with these two she had been propriety itself. UnlebS you can im- 
agine a motiveless maniac dashing through a wood and shooting the 
first comer, you can hardly eonceive any other cause than jealousy 
for such a crime as this.” 

” Do you remember the name of the man who was suspected?” 

” Not at this moment; but 1 have the whole history of the case in 
my workshop below, and if you would like to read it there are de- 
tails that might interest you.” 

” 1 should like much to read it.” 


CHAPTER X. 

” TOUCH LIPS AND PART WITH TEARS.” 

While Edward Heath cote was on the other side of the Channel 
trying to find a solution tor the problem of Leonie Lemarque’s 
death, which should also be a complete acquittal of Bothwell Gra- 
hame, that gentleman was trying to solve his own particular prob- 
lem, that grand perplexity ot his sccial life, which had weighed 
upon him more or" less heavily for the last three years. He had 
been to Plymouth twice since his decisive interview with Hilda;"' 
and on each occasion it had been impossible for him to obtain sq 
much as five minutes’ tete-d tete with the lady he went to see; and 
that which he had to say to her could not be said in five minutes, or 
in five times five minutes. And now, while his champion was faith- 
fully toiling in his interests, and while Hilda was giving him all her^ 
thoughts and most ot her prayers, Bothwell set out on his familiar 
Plymouth journey for the third lime within ten days, and with a 
letter in his pocket which held out the hope of an opportunity fdr 
confidential talk. 

‘‘ A'ou looked miserable the last time you were here,” wrote the 
lady, ” and y'ou looked as if y^ou had something vejy serious to say 
ito me. 1 am bored to death by the general’s hangers-on — he fs 


92 WYLLAKD’s WEIED. 

much too kind to the nobodies who besiege us here'— and 1 hardly 
ever know what it is to be alone. But if you will come to-morrow 
1 will take care to keep other people out. 1 shall pretend a head- 
ache, and deny myself to everybody. You must walk boldly in by 
the garden, contrive not to meet any of the servants, and you will 
find me sitting in the colonnade. It will all seem accidental. When 
the general comes lo his afternoon tea he will find you there, and we 
shall tell him how you wandered in, and escaped the consigne. You 
are such a favorite that he will smile at a liberty from you wdiich he 
would be the first to resent in any one else.” 

Bothwell sat in his corner of the railway carriage, meditating 
upon this letter in his breast pocket. How hard and cruel and false 
and mean the whole tone of the lady’s correspondence seemed to 
him, now that the srlamor of a fatal infatuation had passed from his 
brain and his senses; now that he was able to estimate the enchant- 
ress at her real value, now that his newly-awakened conscience had 
shown him the true color of his conduct during the last three years. 
Three years ago a stroke of good fortune had happened to him one 
day in the hill -country when he and his brother officers had gone 
out after big game. It had been his chance to save the life of one 
of the most distinguished men in the service, General Harborough, 
a man who at that time occupied an important official position in 
the Bengal Presidency. Bothwell’s presence of mind, courage, and 
rapid use of a revolver had saved the general from the jaws of a 
leopard, which had crept upon the party while they were resting at 
luncheon, after a long morning’s wild boar shooting. General Har- 
borough was the last man to forget such a service. He took Both- 
well Grahame under his protection from that hour, inti od need him 
to his wife. Lord Lostwithiel’s daughter, and one of the most ele- 
gant women in the Presidency. 

Favored by such friends, Bothwell Graharre’s life in India be- 
came a kind of triumph. He was good-looking, well mannered, a 
first-rate shot, and an exceptional horseman. He could sing a part 
in a glee or duet, and he waltzed to perfection. He was supposed to 
have a genius for waltzing, and to become master of every new step 
as if by a kind of inspiration. ” What is the last fashionable waltz 
in London?” people asked him, and he showed them the very 
latest glide, or swoop, or twist, as the case might be. His friends 
told him all about them in their letters, he said. He always knew 
what was going on in the dancing world. 

Such a man, not too young nor yet too old — neither a stripling 
nor a fogy — chivalrous, amiable, full of verve and enjoyment of 
life, was eminently adapted to the holiday existence at Simla, and 
it was at Simla that Bothwell Grahame became in a manner the 
fashion, looked up to by all the young men of his acquaintance, 
petted by all the women. Nor did it appear strange in the eyes of 
society that Lady Valeria Harborough should be particularly kind 
to him, and should have him very often at her bungalow, which 
was the center of all that was gay, and elegant, and spirituel in the 
district. All the Simla jokes oiiginated at the Harborough bumra 
low. All the latest English fashions, the newest refinements in the 
service of a dinner table, or the arrangement afternoon tea, came 


' wyllard’s weirp. 93 

from the same source. Lady Valeria led the fashion, gave the note 
of taste throughout that particular section of Indian society. 

No, there was nothing exceptional in her kindness to Captain 
Grahame. In the first place, he had saved her husband from being 
clawed and mangled to death by a wild beast, a service tor which a 
good wife would be naturally grateful; and, in the second place, 
Bothwell was only one of a court of young men who surrounded 
Lady Valeria wherever she happened to be living — but most of all 
up at the hills, where there was more leisure for" chivalry. She al- 
ways spoke of them as boys, and frankly admitted that she liked 
I their admiration on account of its naivete. 

j For some time she talked of Both well Grahame as a “ nice boy,’' 

; in spite of his thirty years. She herself owned pensively to seven 
and twenty. Tergiversation would have been vain, since the peer- 
age was open to all her friends, with its dry-as-dust* record, “ Val- 
eria Hermoine, born 1854.” 

She was twenty-seven years of age, striking elegant and interest- 
ing, if not actually handsome, and she had been two years married 
to a Irian who had lately celebrated his sixty-seventh birthday. She 
had accepted the general and his splendid settlements, meekly enough. 

! There had been no undue persuasion, no domestic tyranny. Her 
suitor was a perfect gentleman, wealthy, distinguished, and she 
■ was told that he could give her all good things which a woman need 
I care to possess. She would spend two or three years with him in 
I India, where he had an important official appointment, and then 
! she would return to England, where he had two country seats — a 
' villa near Plymouth and a castle in Scotland — and a house in Gros- 
! venor Square. As one of seven sisteis, it became her to accept the 
, fortune that had fallen into her lap. She was, or she seemed to be, 
of a temperament that could be happy in a union with a man old 
enough to be her grandfather. She seemed one of those womerr 
l;)orn to shine and to rule, rather than to love. No one who knew 
[ her intimately feared any evil consequences from her marriage with 
the elderly soldier. 

“ Valeria will make General Harborough an admirable wife,” 

! said the mattons and ancient maidens of the house of Lostwithiel, 
“ and she will be a splendid mistress for that fine old feudal castle 
in Perthshire.” 

Valeria had never known what passionate feeling meant till she 
gave her friendship to Bothwell Grahame. She had never thrilled 
at a man’s voice, or listened for a man’s tootstep till she began to 
I start at his voice and listen for his tread. The fatal love came upon 
her like a fever, struck her down in the strength of her proud 
womanhood, made her oblivious of duty, blind to honor, mastered 
her like a demoniac possession, and from a spotless wife she became 
all at once an actress and an intriguer. 

Oh, those fatal days at Simla, the long, idle afternoons. The 
music and singing— the dances late in the night when cool winds 
were blowing over the hills — the garden lit with lamps like glow- 
worms — the billiards and laughter — the light jests, the heavy sighs. 
There came a time when Bothwell Grahame found himself bound 
by an iniquitous tie to the wife of his most generous friend. 

Their love was to be guiltless always — that is to say, not the kind 


wyllakd’s weird, 


u 


of love W'hicli would brinij: Lady Valeria Harborouo;!! within, the 
jurisdiction of the divorce court; not the kind of love which would 
make her name a scandal and disgrace in the ears of all her English 
friends, a theme for scorn and scoffing in Bengal. But, short of 
such guilt as this— short of stolen meetings and base allies, the con- 
nivance of servants, the willful blindness of hotel-keepers— short of 
actual shame and disgrace, they were to be lovers. He was to be at 
her beck and call— to devote all the leisure of his days to her so- 
ciety — to give not one thought to any other woman — to wail pa- 
tiently, were it ten years or twenty years, for the good old man’s 
death; and then, after her ceremonial year of widowhood, all defer- 
ence to the world’s opinion having been paid, he was to claim Lady 
V^aleria tor his wife. This was the scheme of life to which Botliwell 
Grail a me had pledged himself. For all the best years of his man- 
hot »d he^was tb be a h3'pocrile and an ingrate — the slave of a woman 
whose rule he dared not acknowledge, wailing for a good man's 
death. That was the worst degradation of all to a man of warm 
heart and generous feeling. All that w'as best and biavest in Boih- 
well G rah ame’s nature kept his mind in perpetual revolt against the 
baseness of his position. To grasp General llarboiough’s hand and 
to remember bow coldly he and Valeria bad calculated the yeais 
which the good old man had yet to live, had speculated upon the 
end drawing near, coming suddenly, perhaps; lo know that all 
their hopes of happiness were based upon the husband’s speedy 
d« ath. There were times, even in the first red dawn of passion, 
while he was proudest of this woman’s love, when he almonl hated 
her for her disloyalty as a wife. Could there be happiness or peace 
m a bond so made? And then the woman’s fascination, the absolute 
power of a passionate, resolute character over a w^eak aiul yielding 
one, vanquished all his scruples, stilled the voice of conscience and 
honor. Not Samson at the feet of Delilah was more completely a 
slave than Botliwell in that luxurious idleness of the ludifin hills, 
when ihe only purpose life held seemed lo be the desire to get the 
maximum of frivolous amusement out of every day. There was no 
pastime too childish tor Lady Valeria and her admirers, no sport 
too inane. Yet the lady contrived to maintain her w omanly dignity 
even in the most infantine amusements, and was honored as a queen 
by all her little court of worshipers, from the bearded major or the 
portly lawyer lo the callowest subaltern. 

Both well’s conduct toward her, and the lady’s manner to him, 
were irreproachable. If there were any difference, she was a shade 
colder and more reserved in her treatment of him than of her other 
slaves, but there were imfinents, briefest opportunities, a tete-d-tete- 
of five minutes in a moonlit veranda, a little walk down to the 
fountain, a ride in which they too were ahead of the rest just for a 
few yards; moments when Valeria’s impassioned soul poured forth 
its treasures of love at this man’s feet, with the utter unreserve of a 
woman who risks all upon one cast of the die. She, who had been 
deemed the coldest and proudest of women — Diaua not more chaste, 
an iceberg not more cold— she, Valeria Ilarborougb, bad chosen to 
fall madly in love with a man who vvas her social interior, and who 
had tried his uttermost to escape from the net she had spread for 
him. Yes, he had not yielded willingly, lie had fought the good 


wyllard's weird. 95 

had tried his hardest to b’e loyal and (rue. And then in one 
moment the spell had been too strong for his manhood. One never- 
to-be-forgotlen night, they two standing beside the fountain, steeped 
in (he golden light of the southern stars, he had yielded himself up 
to the enchantment of the hour, to the witchery of luminous violet 
eyes, brighter for a veil of tears. He had drawn her suddenly to 
, his heart, asked her passionately why she had made him adore her,, 
j in spite of himself, against reason and honor; and she, with tearful 
I eyes looking up at him, had answered softly, “ Because it was my 
! fate to love you,"’ and then she told him in short, disjointed sen- 
! tences, broken by sobs, that she was not a wicked woman, that he 
I must not scorn or loathe her, even it he could not give her love for 
1 love. INever till she knew him had she swerved by one , hair’s 
breadth from the line of strictest duty; never had she known a 
thought which she need wish to hide from her husband. And then 
j in an evil hour he had become almost domesticated in her house, 
and his influence had gradually infolded her like a cloud spread by 
a magician, and she had awakened to a new being. She had learned 
the meaning of that mystic word love. 

From that night Both well was Iier slave. Touched, flattered, 
possessed by this fatal love— loo glad weakly to echo the woman’s 
favorite excuse. Fatality — he struggled no longer against the magic 
passion. He belonged henceforth to Lady Valeria — more completely^ 
enslaved than if she had been tree to claim him before the world as 
i her affianced husband. Her lightest word, her lightest look ruled 
him. He went where she told him, spent his days as she ordered. 
He had been one of the hardest- working officers in India up to this 
time, and his branch of the service, the Engineers, was one which 
offered splendid chances of piomotion. 

General Harborongh had promised to do all that his very con- 
siderable influence could do to push his young friend to the front; 
and it seemed to the men who knew him . best that Bothwell Gra- 
hame’s fortune was made. 

“ There are men whose heads are turned by the first stroke of 
luck, and who never do anything after, said a canny Scotch 
major, “ but Graliame is thorough, and is not afraid of hard work. 
Take my word for it, he’ll get on just as young J^apier did.” 

But, with the ball at his feet, Bothwell Grahame suddenly 
dropped out of the game. He left off working altogether. He was 
the slave of a woman who preferred her own pleasure in his society 
to his chances of distinction, who said, “ Why should you work*? 
there will be enough for both of us by and by.” 

By and by meant when the^good old g( ueral should he lying ii) 
his grave. He was an old man. It was not possible to ignore that 
; fact, though he was erect as a dart, active, full of dignity and in- 
> tellect— a man of men. He was nearing the scriptural limit of three- 
t score and ten, and the inevitable end that comes to us all must come 
I to him before many years. 

I Notliing was further from Bothwell’s thoughts than the idea of 
t being maintained by a wife: but he let Lady Valeria tempt him 
away from his booRs or his laboratory; suffered Jiimself to become 
indifferent to his profession — to care for nothing but the life he led 
in her boudoir or her drawing-room. 


9'6 


wyllaud’s weird, 


And then there came new clifRculties. Laa^ Valeria was at heart 
a gamester. The excitement of cards or betting had become a 
necessity to her in her Indian life. She played high. She had her 
book for every great English race. She ^waited the telegrams that 
brought her the tidings of victory oi defeat with feverish impatience. 
The natural result followed. She was often in money difficulties. 
Generous as her husband was, she feared to appeal to him on these 
occasions. She knew that of all types of womanhood he most hated 
a gambling woman She had her pin-money, which was ample for 
^ all ordinary requirements and extravagances of a woman of fashion. 
She dared not ask her husband for more money. But she was not 
afraid to call upon her slave, Both well Grahame; and Bothw^ell had 
to help her somehow— this wife, of the future, who by and by was 
to provide for him. 

He helped her first by nominally lending — actually giving her — 
every sixpence of his own patrimony, disposing, bit by bit, of that 
little estate in Perthshire of which his ancestors had been so ptoud. 
When he had beggared himself thus he began to borrow of the 
Jews— always for Lady Valeria — and finally found himself in such 
a mess financially that he had to leave the army. 

General Harborough heard of his difficulties, and supposed the}^ 
were all self-induced, but made the kindest excuses for the sinner. 
He offered to pay Bothwell’s debts, and implored him not to throw 
up his career, with all its brilliant chances. The general was 
wounded to the quick when his offers were steadfastly refused. 

“ A gentleman knows how to accept a service as w^ell as how to 
render one,'’ he said. “ You saved my life, and 1 have never felt 
burdened by the obligation.” 

Both well stood before him, grave, pale, silent, humiliated by his 
kindness. 

“ Forgive me, sir,” he faltered at last. ” Believe me 1 am not 
ungrateful. There was a lime when 1 would rather have accepted 
a favor from you than from any other man living. But 1 am tired 
of the army. 1 feel that 1 shall never get on. 1 have sent a state- 
ment of my affairs to my cousin’s husband, the banker, who has a 
genius for finance. He will settle with my creditors, and 1 shall 
begin the world again, my own man.” 

Bothwell sighed involuntarily after those last words. What free- 
dom, or manhood, or independence could there ever be for him, 
bound as he was bound? 

He left India soon after this interview with the general, who was 
going back to England in the following year. Lady Valeria deeply 
resented his conduct in leaving India wffiile she was obliged to 
remain there. It was desertion, infidelity. He ought to have re- 
mained at any cost — at any loss of his owm self-respect. She never 
could be brought to consider things fom his standpoint. If he had 
loved her, she argued, he would have stayed. Love never counted 
the cost of anything. Tney parted in anger, and Bothwell went 
home with a sore heart, yet with a sense of relief in the idea of re- 
covered freedom. 

Then came a period of comparative liberty for Bothwell. He re- 
ceived an occasional letter from Lady Valeria, full of upbiaidings 
and regrets. He answered as best he might— kindly, affectionately 








wyllard’s weird. 


97 


even — T^ut he flattered himself that the fatal tie, the dishonorable 
engagement, was a tolly of the past. He was all the more anxious 
to believe this, during that peaceful winter at Penmorval, on ac- 
eount of his growing esteem for another woman. Oh I what a 
different thing it was, that winter love of his! Those happy half 
hours amid the rimy hedgerows, with the shrill north-easter swirling 
across the dark brown of the plowed fields, the yellow light of sum 
set shining against a leaden sky. How curiously different was the 
girl's light, happy talk in the English lane— talk which all the 
world might have heard — from those impassioned whispers beside 
the fountain under the stars of Orient. At first it seemed to him 
that he was only soothed and cheered by his acquaintance with 
Hilda Heafhcote. He affected to consider her a mere girl, hardly 
emerged from the nursery. He was surprised to find how rightly 
she thought upon the gravest subjects. Then all at once he awoKe 
to the knowledge that he loved her; and while he was hesitating, 
doubting whether he were free to indulge this new and purer, 
sweeter, happier love, hardly daring to ask himself whether that 
old tie was oi was not canceled, he received a letter from Valeria, 
with the Paris postmark. 

“We have just arrived here from Brindisi,'* she wrote. “ We shall 
stay in London for a few weeks, and then go on to the generaPs 
place near Plymouth, where you must come and see me every day, 
just as you used at Simla. Oh, Both well, J can hardly trust myself 
to write. 1 dare not tell you half the joy 1 feel in the idea of our 
meeting. If j'Ou cared for me you would come to London. It 
would be so easy to pretend business, and you would be warmly 
welcomed in Grosvenor Square. Your last letter seemed to me so 
cold and distant — as if you were beginning to forget, or as if you 
had not forgiven my anger at your desertion. Ah, Bothwell, yon 
should have pitied me and sympathized with me in that cruel part- 
ing. You ought to have known that my anger was despair. But 
you thought only of your own dignity, your own self-respect — not 
of my sorrow. Men are so selfish.*’ 

BoTthwell did not .go to London. He excused himself upon vari- 
ous grounds, and remained quietly at Penmorval. But from that 
hour his manner to Hilda changed altogether. Prom an unavowed 
lover he became an ordinary acquaintance. He set a watch upon 
his tongue that it should say no words of pleasantness. He vowed 
that he would not again suffer himself to be enn\eshed in Lady 
Valeria’s net; but until he had calmly and deliberately broken with 
I her, he could not be the lover of any other woman. He made up 
I his mind that so soon as the general and his wife were settled at 
Fox Hill there should be a rupture— temperate, gentle, firm, and 
irrevocable. 

Lady Valeria came to Fox Hill and summoned her slave. He 
went, and there was no rupture — only a renewal of the old bonds. 
The bird was in the fowler’s net again. Bothwell was often at Fox 
Hill. He spent long afternoons there tete-a-tete with Lady Valeria. 
She was less careful than she had been in India. 

“We are not surrounded with busybodies here,” she said. “1 
feel that 1 can do as 1 like in my own house.” 

He went to London to borrow money for her when she was in 


98 


wyllard's weird. 


difficulties about that hoirible book of hers; and Lady Valeria’s 
normal state now was financial difficulty. Almost e\rerybody knew 
that she was a gambler, except her husband. He was so thoroughly 
respected and beloved that no one bad the heart to make him un- 
happy by breathing a word to his wife’s discredit. He thought her 
faultless. 

She had hardened in that false, wicked life of hers; but she was 
more fascinating than ever, Hothwell thonght, albeit he was far less 
under her spell than he had been in the old days at Simla. The 
very fever of her mind intensified her charm. She seemed such an 
ethereal creature — all life, and light, and sparkle. 

And now half-buried in his corner of the rail way-carriage, Both- 
well smoked the pipe of meditation. He looked back upon that 
fatal past, and cursed himself for the weak folly that had put such 
a chain round his neck. He looked back and recalled the old 
scenes, the old feelings, and he almost wondered if he could be the 
same man who had so felt and so acted. 

He drove to Fox Hill as fast as a cab-horse would take him, 
alighted a little way from the chief gates, and dismissed his con- 
veyance, meaning to walk back to Plymouth after his interview. 

Fox Hill was four miles from the station, but Bothwell could walk 
four miles in an hour with that free swinging stride of his. A four- 
mile walk and a pipe might just serve to quiet his nerves after the 
ordeal he had to undergo. 

The general’s Devonshire home was an Italian villa, built on the 
southern slope of an amphitheater of hills, and commanding the 
town, the dock-yards, the Hamoose, and the Hoe in all their extent. 
Distance lent enchantment to the view. Plymouth, seen from this 
sunny hill side, looked as beautiful as Naples. ; 

" The villa had been planned by an architect of taste and culture, ' 
built regardless of expense. The house was not large when measured 
by the number ol its rooms; but all the rooms were spacious, light- ^ 

some, and lofty. The decorations were of the simplest. The glory ; 

of the place was its conservatories, wffiich were so arranged as lo | 
introduce flowers and tropical foliage into evei y part of the dwelling. . 
A long marble colonnade, inclosed by plate-glass shutters in winter ;( 
or bad weather, surrounded the house, and here bloomed and hour- J 

ished all that is rarest and loveliest in modern horticulture. The j 

central hall had a glass roof, and was more a conservatory than a | 
hall. The comdors between drawing-room and dining-room, be- 1 
tween boudoir and study, were in dooi rose gardens. Flowers per- 
vaded the house, and harmonized admirably with the elegant sim- 
plicity of the furniture, the draperies of delicate chintz and Indian 
muslin. 

The villa had been created sixty years ago, in the days of the 
Georges, n period when Italian colonnades, Corinthian poriicos, and 
Pompeian conservatories were the rage; but the house suited Lady 
Valeria just as a well-chosen frame suits a picture. 

On this summer September morning Lady Valeria was seated in 
the colonnade, half reclining in one of those very low chairs which 
she always afiected, being one of those tew women who can rise 
gracefully from a seat about a foot from the ground. She was halt i 
hidden by the foliage of oleanders and magnolia, and it was only by ^ 


wyllard’s weird. 


99 


a glimmer of white amongst the glossy green that Bothwell descried 
her in the distance as he crossed ihe lawn. There was a fountain 
on the lawn here, just as at Simla, but the fountain was a late im- 
provement, insisted upon by Lady Valeria. 

“ It will recall Simla, w^here we were so happy,’’ she told her 
husband 

And yet you were so impatient to leave India, toward the last,” 
he said, iilmost reproachfully. 

“ Yes, 1 was very tired of India at the last. There is an end of 
all things.” 

, Bothwell had obeyed Lady Valeria’s instructions to the letter. 
had entered the grounds by a side gate, so as to escape challenge at 
the lodge; and now he made his way boldly to her boudoir. It was 
not a particularly sacred apartment, as it tormeil one in the suite of 
rooms and conservatories which communicated along the whole 
length of the house. Italian villas of the Georgian era are not 
planned for seclusion. 

She was sitting in her low chair, with a little table at her side, 
scattered with books and newspapers. The books were mostly new 
French memoirs and novels of the most advanced school. The 
papers were chiefly sporting. She looked up languidly as Bothwell 
approached, and gave him her hand, like an empress, without stir- 
ring from her graceful repose amidst embroidered silken cushions. 
She was not beautiful. Her charm lay in an extreme reflnement of 
feature and figure, a delicacy of tint which verged upon sickliness. 
It was the refinement of a vanishing race, and recalled the delicacy 
of an overtrained race-horse. 

Her complexion was almost colorless in repose, but the lips were 
of the tint of pale pink rose petals, and every emotion flushed the 
waxen cheek with loveliest bloom. Her nose was long and thin, 
too long for perfect beauty. Her chin was a thought too sharp, 
her brow too narrow. But her eyes were exquisite. Herein lay 
her one grand charm, and Lady Valeria well knew the power of 
those large violet eyes, fringed with darkest lashes, accentuated by 
penciled brows— eyes which seemed to fill with tears at will — eyes 
which could plead more eloquently than lips ever spoke since the 
days of Eve, first tempted and then tempter. 

” I hope you are not really ill,” said Bothwell, seating himself in 
the chair opposite Lad}^ Valeria. 

” Only worried to death,” she answered with an irritated air. I 
have troubles enough to send me into an early grave.” 

” IMoney troubles?” 

‘‘ Money troubles. Yes. I have other troubles too, but the money 
troubles are the most urgent. They gnaw the sharpest.” 

” You have been losing again?” 

Yes. I was so lucky with the Chester that I grew bold— deter- 
mined upon a great coup at York, put every farthing I could scrape 
together upon the favorite for the Great Ebor. I had been assured 
that it was the safest thing in the world. I might back him with 
my wedding-ring. Sir George Mildmay said. And York has gener- 
ally beeu lucky to me, you know. It is my own county, and I love 
every inch of it. The Knavesmire was the first race-course I ever 
saw, the place where 1 first learned to love horses and to understand 


100 


wyllard’s weird. 


tliem. My father used to tell me everything about the races. 1 wae 
the only oae ot us who was really interested in his talk.” 

“ 1 thought the money from Davis, and the money you won on 
the Chester Cup, cleared all your diflSculties.” 

‘‘ Yes, for the moment. But this Y^ork business has made things 
worse than they were before. Mildmay has offered to lend me the 
money.” 

She said this slowly, with drooping eyelids and a thoughtful air, 
but she stole a little look at Bothwell from beneath the long dark 
lashes, to see how he took her speech. 

” Y’ou must not take a sixpence of his money— not a sixpence,” 
said Bothwell, sternly. 

” No, that is exactly my idea. It rvould be very bad form for a 
woman *in my position to borrow from Mildmay— who is— well — a 
man of the world. But I must have the money somehow. The 
book-makers won’t wait. They only give credit in my case because 
they know 1 dare not cheat them.” 

Purely the book-men do not know that you are their creditor?” 

“ They are not supposed to know. The bets are made in my 
brother’s name — Otho’s — who has been in Australia for the last 
two years. But 1 don’t believe those men would trust Otho, even 
if he were in London.” 

” It is dreadful,” exclaimed Bothwell, deeply distressed. ” You 
ought not to have entangled yourself again. What makes you do 
this thing, Valeria? It is worse than chloral, or any other form of 
feminine madness.” 

‘‘ Y"es, it is a kind of madness, I suppose. 1 should not do it if 1 
were happy. 1 shall have no need to do it when 1 am happy — by 
and by.” 

Again she stole a look at him, a tender, pathetic look, which 
would have melted him a year ago. But it left him unmoved now. 
He felt only anger at her folly, her obstinate persistence in wrong- 
doing. 

” You must not take Mildmay ’s money,” he repeated, ” not for 
worlds. To think that you should have secret dealings with such a 
man— a hardened scamp and roue.'' 

‘‘lam not going to accept Sir George’s offer, which was at least 
good-natured; so you need not be uncivil about him,” replied Vale- 
ria, coolly, ” but 1 must get the money somehow. 1 don’t want 
Olho’s name to be posted at Tattersall’s. There are too many peo- 
ple who would guess that Otho stands tor Valeria in this case.” 

” It would be disgraceful, horrible.” 

” But It will happen, I’m afraid, unless 1 can get the money.” 

” 1 can find no more, Valeria. That last loan from Davis was 
most difficult to manage. 1 had positively no security to offer. 
The money was advanced on the strength of Wyilard’s position, on 
the speculation that he would not see me broke.” 

” 1 am not asking you to pay my debts,” she replied, with her 
gra^d air. The air of a woman accustomed to be worshiped tor 
all she did, and to do wrong with impunity. ” But the money must 
be found somehow, and perhaps you can tell me where 1 am to get 
it?” 

” From your husband,” he answered, impetuously. ” Yes, 


101 


wyllard's weird. 

Valeria, from your one true apd loyal friend. The one man you 
can* ask in all honor to pay for your tollies.” 

‘‘ You ask me to go to him!” exclaimed Valeria, livid with anger. 
” You?” 

” Y’es, 1. 1, who have wronged him deeply by a most fatal en- 

gagement which i have regretted ever since it was made, l^ot be- 
cause you are not lovely, fascinating, all that is fairest and most de- 
siiable in womankind; but because 1 have been hateful to myself on 
account of that treachery. What! to be the atSanced lover of a 
woman whose husband’s hand 1 grasped in seeming friendship: to 
smile in his face, to accept his kindness, his friendship, his confi- 
dence, while all my life was one long waiting for his death, w^hile 
you and 1 were saying to each other every day, by and by we will 
do this, by and by we will go here and there, sail our yacht in the 
Mediterranean, build our cottage on the Scotdh moors, by and by, 
when that good man who trusted us both is in his grave! Oh, it 
has been a hateful position, Valeria — base, miserable, guilty, ac- 
cursed, for both of us, and it must end at last-!” 

There had been tears in his voice almost from the beginning of 
his speech, and at the end he broke down altogether and sobbed 
aloud. 

Valeria rose out of her low chair, and stood before h ini straight as 
a dart. The movement was so quick, so instinct with an unholy 
grace, that it recalled the image ot a cobra he had once seen rise up 
straight before him in the midst of his t>ath through the jungle. 

‘‘ You are in love with another woman,” she hissed, like the ser- 
pent. ” That is the meaning of this sudden outbreak of virtue.” 

He could not deny it. 

” You want to break with me, in order that you may marry some 
one else,” she said, whiter than death, her eyes dilating, her lips 
quivering. 

“Yes,” he answered, quietly. ” 1 could form a happier tie if 
you set me free. But there is not one word which 1 said just now 
>^bout the feeling ot my own baseness which was not just as true 
two years ago as it is to-day. Such a bond as ours never could bring 
happiness, Valeria, to man or to woman.” 

‘‘ It gave us hope,” she said; ” a fair dreum of Ihe future. Well, 
it is all over. Whatever H is worth it is gone— like a tuft ot thistle- 
dowm blown into the air. Go, Bothwell Grahame, you are your 
own man again; go and marry your new love.” 

” It will not be a marriage of to-day, or to-moiiow,” answered 
Bothwell, gravely. ‘‘ My new love and 1 will have to wait for bet- 
ter times. Fiist, 1 am a pauper; and, secondly, there is a taint 
upon my name, inasmuch as the good people of Bodmin and the 
neighborhood have taken it into their wise heads that 1 am a ipur- 
derex% because 1 refused to answer some very impertinent questions 
at the inquest. Valeria, will you forgive me— will you believe — ” 

” That you were heartily tired ot me ages ago, before you left 
India,” she said, interrupting him with a feverish excitement, ^he 
had sunk into her low chair again, and was seated with her hands 
clasped upon the basket-work bedizened with trappings of Oriental 
embroidery, like an Arab's horse— her eyes gazing over the wide pan- 


102 


wyllard's weird. 


orama of land and sea, the dock-yards, the river, the light-house yon- 
der, and the long line of sort dashing against the breaKwater. ' 

“ Yes, 1 know that you were weary ot me long before that bitter 
good-by/’ she went on, breathless with passion, her sentences 
broken into short gasp^. “ 1 think I knew even then that you 
were false — though 1 pretended to myself tliat you were true. I 
don’t believe you ever loved me. You just let me love you, that 
was all. If you had really cared for me — as other men have cared 
lor other women — you would not have been so obedient. You 
would have flung prudence to the winds — you would have made 
scenes — you would have wanted to run away with me. No, you 
never loved me.” ' 

It would have been vain now for Bothwell to protest the reality 
of the old worn-out passion. It had never been of the strongest 
stufi that love is made of, and it had long been growing threadbare. 
He had received his release, and that was the boon he had come here 
to ask. But he could not leave the woman he had once loved with- 
out one word of peace. 

‘‘ Valeria,” he saicT, gently, tenderly even, I shall stay here till 
you forgive me.” 

” Would you stay until you ha\e forced me to tell a lie? There 
can be no blacker lie than any word of mine that offered forgive- 
ness to you. You have deceived me cruelly. You were my strong 
rock, and 1 leaned upon you for comfort. Oh, Bothwell, what is 
she like, this other woman for whom you forsake me? Is she so 
much more beautiful — so much younger — fresher than I?” 

” She is good, and pure, and true, and has been brave and loyal 
when the world spoke evil of me! That is all I can tell you about 
her.” 

” But she is handsome, 1 suppose? You are not going to marry 
a plain woman, out of gratitude!” 

” She is lovely, in my eyes, and 1 believe she is generally con- 
sidered a pretty girl.” 

” W’ho is she?” 

” A lady. I can tell you no more yet awhile. Hark! there is the 
general’s voice. I had better go. Stay, there is something you 
once gave me. You told me to wear it till—” 

” Till you were tired. of me. Yes, I remember,” she said, im- 
patiently. 

“Till the tie was broken between us, in some wise,” he answered, 
taking out his watch. 

There was about three inches of slender Trichinopoly chain on 
the swivel of the watch, and on the chain hung an old-fashioned 
hoop-ring of old Brazilian diamonds. The ring had belonged to 
Ladj’ Valeria’s grandmother, and had been Valeria’s favorite jewel. 

She snatched it from Bothwell’s hand the moment he had taken 
it off the chain, and flung it with all her force into the nearest 
thicket of shrubs. 

” So much for the token of a worn-out love!” she said “ If one 
of the gardeners finds it he will pawn it at Devonport, and spend 
the money in drink. A worthy end for such a souvenir. Good-by, 
3Ir. Grahame.’' 

Bothwell bowed and left her; left her to cniwl up to her bed- 


wyllakd’s weikd. 


103 


room like a wounded doe, and fling herself face downward on I he 
floor, and lie there tearless, despairing, ready to invoke hell itself to 
help her to some kind of revenge, had she but believed in the de^il. 
But Lady Valeria was an Agnostic. She had not even that com- 
fort left her. . 


CHAPTER XL 

A FATAL LOVE. 

M. Hrubarde and his visitor descended the ladder, and entered 
the police-ofticer’s apartment, which consisted of two small rooms, 
the outer an office and saloon combined, the inner a bed-chamber, 
which Mr. Heathcote saw through the open door: a neat little 
bachelor’s nest, with a velvet-curtained bedstead, and walls lined 
with portraits of every kind, engravings, lithographs, photographs. 

The saloon was decorated with the same style of art, diversified 
by engravings from newspapers, all representing notorious crimes: 
“"The Murder in the Rue dela Paix “ GerminieLatouche, stabbed 
in the kitchen of the Red Cross Restaurant by her lover, G files 
Pei die;’’ “ The arrest of Victor Larennes for the great forgeries on 
the Bank of France;” “ The escape of Jean Bizat, the parricide.” 
Art had represented all these scenes with due dramatic fervor. 
They were hardly pleasing subjects in the abstract, but to Andre 
Drubarde they were all delightful, for they recalled §ome of the 
most interesting and most proffiable hours of his life. He was 
gratified to see his guest looking at those stories of crime, in artistic 
Siortiiand. 

“ Gilles Perdie would have got off, it it had not been for me,” he 
said, with excusable pride. “ The police had been hunting for him 
ten long days, when 1 put them on the right scent. We knew that 
he had not got far from the scene of the crime — f or there had been 
no time for escape, you see. The murder was found out within 
half an hour of the woman’s death. He was hunted tor in every 
hole and corner within a radius of a mile. .No one had seen him 
leave the premises. No one had set eyes on him since the murder, 
which occurred in the early morning in October, when it was not 
light before six. ‘ How do you know that he ever did leave that 
house?’ 1 asked one day, meaning , the Red Cross, a workman’s 
eating-house in the Rue Galande. He was cellarman there, cellar- 
man and terreur combined. My comrades laughed at me. They 
had searched the Red Cross from cellar to garret; they had not left 
an inch of the building unexplored. ‘Have you looked in the 
empty casks?’ 1 asked. Yes, they had looked in the empty casks.* 
The cellar was very neatly arranged, the empty casks in a row on 
one side, the full ones on the other. My friends protested that they 
were not such fools as to have overlooked an empty cask. ‘ Who 
knows,’ 1 said. ‘ We will go there this afternoon and overhaul those 
barrels.’ Need 1 tell you the result? It is history. There was one 
empty hogshead, artfully pushed in a corner, last in the rank of un- 
broached hogsheads. The open ei\d had been turned toward the 
wall, and in that empty Macon cask, in that rat-haunted cellar, 
Gilles Perdie had contrived to exist for ten days, by the aid of a 


104 


wtllard's weird. 


little girl, his victim’s daughter, who lived in the house, and whom 
he threatened to kill as he had killed her mother if she told any one 
about him, or failed to carry him food' and drink twice a day. 
There, amidst vermin and ordure, he had lived, coiled up in his 
hogshead, and perhaps not much worse off than some of the poor 
of Paris, who have committed no crime except poverty.” 

“ Tou have a right to boast of your scent, monsieur, after such a 
triumph as that.” 

“ A bagatelle, monsieur— one of the poorest of my cases; but it 
made a great hit at the time. My portrait appeared in three differ- 
I'Qt newspapers, side by side with that ot the criminal.” 

” A distinguished honor. And now it you will be kind enough 
to give me the further information which you promised as to names 
and details?” 

‘‘ Monsieur Effcotte, you are Mr. Distin’s friend, and for you 1 
will do what 1 would hardly do for my own brother. 1 will trust 
you with one of my. hooks.” 

” You are extremely obliging.” 

” 1 know, sir, that there are some people who think nothing of 
lending a book; they can hand over a treasured volume to a friend 
— to an indifferent acquaintance even— without a pang; they can 
see him turn the leaves and violate the stiffness of the back. I, mon- 
sieur, w'ould almost as soon lend my arm and hand as one of those 
volumes; but tor you I will make an exception. You shall have 
the volume which contains the report of the Prevol case to read and 
copy at your leisure. ” 

“You are more than good.” 

M. Drubarde’s library consisted of four rows of handsomely-bound 
volumes, whose gilded backs shone behind a barricade of plate- 
glass, in a locked book-case. They were books which he had col- 
lected at his leisure, and w'hich bore for the most part on his profes- 
sion. The memoirs of Vidocq, the memoirs of Canler, of Sanson 
the executioner, and other biographies of equally thrilling interest. 
For literature of so lofty a stamp, Andre Drubarde had deemed no 
binding too luxurious, and he had clothed his favorites in all the 
glory of purple, and green, and crimson, and sumptuous gilding. 
He had decorated their backs with all the bookbinder’s chosen orna- 
mentations— his and roses, his foliage and acorns, and 
scrolls and emblems. Even the volume of printed reports which 
M. Drubarde handed to Mr. Heathcote was gorgeous in red morocco 
and gold. 

” You will find the case fully reported in that volume,” he said. 

” When you have read it, and made your own conclusions upon it, 
you can come back to me, and we will talk the matter over to- ■} 
gether.” ^ 

” 1 will call upon you again to-morrow at the same hour, it you j 
will allow me,” replied Heathcote, laying a ten-pound note upon 
the table; “but 1 must ask you, in the meantime, to accept this 
trifle as an earnest of future remuneration. 1 do not oh any account 
desire to impose on your good nature.” 

M^ Drubarde shrugged his shoulders; declared that, as a matter^ 
of feeling, he would rather work gratuitously for any friend of Mr. ■ 
Distin’s; but that, from a business point of view, his time was I 


wyllard’s weird. 


105 


vahiabie. He had a little place in the country, fitteen. miles out of 
Paris; he had nephews and nieces dependent upon him; in a word, 
he had to work for odiers as well as for himself. 

“ Before you go, perhaps you will be so good as to tell me your 
motive for hunting up the history of this old murder?” he said^ 
with a keen look. He had been intending to ask ibis question from 
• the beginning. 

” lam hunting out the details of an old murder in order to fathom 
the mystery of a new murder, or of a strange death, which 1 take 
to be a murder. Can you read English, Monsieur Drubarde?’^ 

‘‘ 1 have a niece who can— a girl who was educated at Jersey. 1 
am going to my country. home this afternoon, and my niece can 
read anything you give me.” 

Mr. Heathcote took from his pocket-book the report of the two 
inquests, cut out of the local papers and pasted on slips of foolscap. 

” If your niece will translate that report for you, 1 think you will 
understand the motive of my investigation,” he said, and then bade 
M. Drubarde good-morning. 

He went down-stairs with the volume of reports under his arm, 
hailed a fly, and drove' to the Hotel de Bade, stopping only to en- 
gage a stall for that evening at the Comedie Frangaise, the only 
recreation which he cared for in his present frame of mind. He had 
numerous acquaintances in Paris, but he did not care about seeing 
one of them just now, nor did he linger in the bright gay streets to 
mark the changes which a year had made in the aspect of that ever- 
varying city, as he would have done had his mind been free from 
care. 

He had a sitting-room and bedroom on the second floor of the 
hotel, two nice little rooms opening into each other, and both over- 
looking the Boulevard, an outlook which, on former occasions, he 
had preferred to the monastic quiet of the court-yard, where there 
were no sounds but the splashing of the water, with which the 
man-of-all-work sluiced the stone pavement at intervals of an hour 
or two all through the broiling afternoon, or the scream of a cham- 
bermaid arguing with a waiter, both talking as loud as if they had 
been communicating from the gate of St. Martin to the gate of Bt. 
Denis. To-day, with the report of the Prevol case open before 
him, Edward Heathcote could have found it in his heart to curse 
, the Boulevard, with its incessant roar and rattle, its incessant ya- 
youp of coachmen on the point of running over a foot-passenger, 
and everlasting clamor of the lively Gaul. He would like to have, 
been in a hermit’s cave,' with never a sound but the singing of the 
wind on the mountain-side. 

Yes, here was the interrogation of the waiter at the Henri Quaire 
Hotel: 

” Do you remember a lady and gentleman who dined in the 
private room on the 6th of September?” 

The waiter remembered perfectly. The lady was very pretty; the 
gentleman remarkably haudsorae, and with a distinguished air. 
They had a little girl with them. The gentleman ordered a private 
room, and a little dinner Men soigne. He was very particular about 
the champagne, and about the dessert. The grapes and peaches were 
to be of the choicest. The gentleman and lady dined early— between 


106 


WYLLARD S WEIRD. 


five and six — and the Ihdy had a somewhat agitated air— seemed out 
of sorts, and ate very little. The gentleman was very attentive to 
her, and petted the little girl. At half-past six they went tor a 
drive in the forest. Ihe carriage w^as ordered directly they sat 
down lo dinner. 

“ Had you any reason to suppose lhat thislady and gentleman had 
been followed or watched by any one when they arrived at the Henri 
Quatre?’' 

“ They arrived in a fly. No, 1 observed no one lurking about or 
watching when they arrived. I w^ent out to give an order to the 
coachman while the carriage was standing before the door, waiting 
to take them tor their ride in the forest; and 1 observed a man on 
the other side ot the road. I should not have noticed him, perhaps, 
if the collar ot his overcoat had not been turned up in a curious 
manner, i thought it strange that any one should wear an overcoat 
on such an evening.” 

” Did this man appear to be watching the hotel?” 

” Pie was standing in front ot the hotel when 1 went out. 1 saw 
him look across at the window in which the lady and gentleman were 
dining. The window was open, and there were two candelabra 
upon the table. Any one could see the diners from the road.” ' 

” There was no blind, or curtain?” 

“No. The evening was particularly mild. All the windows in 
the sitting-rooms were open.” , 

“What became ot this man?” j 

“ He walked rapidly along the road, and turned the corner on to | 
the terrace.” S 

“ Should you recognize him it you were to see him again?” j 

“ Impossible. It was twilight when 1 saw him, and he was on the 5j 
other side ot the road. His coat collar was turned up, so as to con- 
ceal the lower halt ot his face.” 

“ But you must at least have observed his general appearance. 
Was he tall or short? Had he the air ot a gentleman?” 

“ He was tall. Y6s, 1 should say he was a gentleman.” 

“ Young or old?” 

“ He walked like a young man. 1 thought he had an agitated 
air. He walked very quickly, but stopped suddenly two or three 
times between the hotel and the corner ot the terrace, as if he were 
thinking deeply; hesitating whether to go this way or that; and then 
he walked on again more quickly than before.” 

“ Yon saw no more of him that evening?” 

“ No. At halt-past eight o’clock 1 heard that there had been a 
double murder in the forest, and that the bodies were lying at the 
Town Hall. I went to see the bodies, and recognized the lady and 
gentleman who had dined at our hotel. 1 also saw the little girl 
who was in the charge ot the police. She was crying bitterly. The 
corpses were removed to Paris immediately after the inquest.” 

The examination ot the driver came next. Pie had very little to 
telll. He had been told to wait at the cross-roads until the lady and 
gentleman returned from their stroll. It was a lovely night — a night 
which might have tempted any one to alight and walk in the forest 
glade. The moon was rising, but it was dark amid the old trees. 

The man had been waiting about a quarter of an hour when he 


WYLLAKD's WEIKD. 


107 


heard a shot a little way off— and then another, and another, and 
another, in rapid succession — and then he heard a child screaniinji. 
He tied his horse to a tree, and he ran into the glade, guided by the 
screams of the child. He found the lady and gentleman lying on 
the ground side by side, the child kneeling by the lady, and scream- 
ing with grief and terror. The gentleman groaned two or three 
times, and then expired. The lady neither stirred nor moaned. Her 
light-colored gown and mantle were covered with blood. 

The driver was questioned as to whether anybody had passed him 
while he waited at the cross-roads. No, he had not observed any 
one, except an old woman and a boy who had been gathering sticks 
in the forest. The place at which he was waiting was a well-known 
point. The glade in which the murder occurred was considered one 
of the most picturesque spots in the forest. He always drove there 
with people who wanted to see the beauties of St. Germain. But at 
that late hour there were very few people driving. He had met no 
carriage after leaving the terrace. 

Then followed the examination of the child, and of Marie Prevol’s 
mother. They were both lengthy, for the Juge d' InsthicUon had 
applied himself with peculiar earnestness to the task of unraveling 
this mystery, and it was only in the details of the dead woman’s 
surroundings that the clew to the secret could be found. 

The child had etidently answered the magisterial questions with 
extreme intelligence. However she might have broken down after- 
ward, she had been perfectly rational at the time of the interrogatory. 
It seemed to Mr. Heathcote, influenced perhaps by his knowledge of 
after events, that the child’s replies indicated a hypersensitiveness 
and an intellect intensified by feverish excitement. 

“ You remember going to St. Germain with your aunt?’' 

“ Yes.” 

” Tell me all you can recall about that day. "Tell me exactly 
when and how you started, and what happened to you on the wa}''. 
1 want to hear everything.” 

” It was three o’clock when we left my aunt’s house. Monsieur 
de Maucroix came in a little before that, and asked my aunt to go 
to dinner with him somewhere in the country. The weather was 
too lovely tor Paris, he said. She did not want to go. She said 
Georges would be angry.” 

‘‘Who is Georges?” 

” Some one I never saw.” 

” Was he a friend of your aunt’s?” 

“Yes, 1 think so. She often talked of him. Monsieur de 
Maucroix used to talk of him, and to be angry about him.” 

” Why angry?” 

** 1 don’t know. He used to say Georges will not let you do this. 
Georges will not let you do that. What right has Georges that he 
should order you here or there? And then my aunt used to cry.” 

” Were you often at your aunt’s apartment?” 

” Very often. 

“You lived there sometimes, did you not?” 

‘‘ Yes, 1 used to stay there for a week sometimes. It was very 
niee to be with my aunt-, much nicer than being with grandmother. 
She used to take me out in a carriage sometimes. Her rooms were 


108 


wyllard’s weird. 


prettier thtin grrmcl mother’s rooms, for there were flowers all about, 
and pretty things, and she was prettier, and wore prettier clothes.” 

” But it you were there for a week at a time, how was it that you 
never saw this Monsieur Georges, who was such a close friend of 
your aunt’s?” 

” He never came till late at night. lie used to ccme to supper 
often. I heard the servant say so. She said he was a dissipated 
man, a bad subject. Grandmother said so too. ‘ Has that night-bird 
been here again?’ she asked my aunt once, and my aunt was angry 
tind 'beeran to cry, and then my grandmother got angry, too, and 
said, ‘ Who is he, and what is he? 1 want to know that.’ And then 
my aunt said, ‘ He is a gentleman, that is enough for you to know.’ 
And then she showed my grandmother a pretty necklace that Georges 
had given her the night before, a necklace of shining white beads 
like the water-drops from the fountain at the Tuileries.” 

. ” They were diamonds, 1 suppose? ’ 

• ” Yes, that is what my grandmother called them. She wetted 
them with her tongue to find out if they weie real diamonds, and then 
she and my aunt kissed each other, and made friends.” 

” Y'ou are sure you never saw this Monsieur Georties?” 

‘‘ J^ever. My aunt used to send me to bed very early, before she 
went to the theater.” 

” Did she not take you with her to the theater sometimes?” 

” Never. She said that theaters were not good for little girls.” 

Now tell me about your journey to St. Germain. How did you 
go?” 

“ First in a carriage, and then in a train.” 

” Had you to wait at the station?” 

“ A long time. T was tired. I thought it would have been nicer 
to be at home.” 

“ What did your aunt and Monsieur de Maucroix do while they ‘ 
were waiting?” | 

They sat in a corner of a big room wdth great windows, through j 
which we could see the trains. 1 watched the trains through the i 
window.” j 

” Were there many other people in the room?” i 

“Very few.” \ 

“Did you take notice of any one?” j 

“ 1 noticed a little girl. She was bigger than I am, but still quite > 
little. I tliought 1 sliould like to play with her. She had a blue j 
balloon, and she' let it fly out ot the window and broke it.” \ 

“Did you notice nobody else?” , 

“ Only one other person, a gentleman who wore dark spectacles. ” - 

“ Wliat made you observe him in particular?” 

“ His spectacles were so curious, and he looked at my aunt.” ^ 

“ What do you mean when you say he looked at your aunt? Did ' > 
he look as if he knew her?” 

“ 1 don’t kuovv. He stood just outside the doorway, looking at 
my aunt and Monsieur de Maucroix.” 

“ How long did he stand there?” 

“ I don’t know. ” 

“ For five minutes, do you think— as long as you could count a ^ 
hundred?” 


wyllard’s weird. 


109 


“ Lfwiger than that.’' 

“ Was he young or old, tall or short?” 

” He was tall. 1 think he must have been old, because he wore 
spectacles.” 

” Did your aunt and Monsieur de Maucroix observe him?” 

” No. 1 asked my aunt when we were in the train it slie had seen 
the gentleman with the funny spectacles, and she said no.” 

” Did you see him again after he left the waiting-room?’' 

“No.” 

“ Now, tell me all you can about your journey to St. Germain.” 

“ We went in the train, in a beautiful carriage with soft cushion^. 
1 looked out of the window all the time. My aunt and Monsieur de 
Maucroix sat by the other window talking.” 

“ Did you hear what they said?” 

“ Not much. 1 w^as not listening. It was so nice to see the coun- 
try, and the trees rushing by. 1 heard Monsieur de Maucroix ask 
my aunt to go away with him — he begged her to go — to Italy, 1 
think he said. Is there a place called Italy?” 

“Yes. And how did your aunt answer?” 

“ She said she could not go. She was bound to Georges. Georges 
would kill her if she left him. Monsieur de Maucroix laughed, and 
said that people do not do such things nowadays. He laughed, and 
soon afterward my aunt and he were both dead. 1 saw the blood — 
streams of blood.” 

At this point, said the report, the girl Lemarque became hyster- 
ical, and the rest of her evidence had to be postponed for another 
day. In the meantime the grandmother and Barbe Girot, Marie 
Pre\^6rs servant, were interrogated. 

Mme. Lemarque stated that her daughter was an actress at the 
Porte St. Martin. She was very beautiful, and w^as more renowned 
for her grace and beauty than for her acting. She danced and sung 
and acted in fairy scenes. She was only three-and-twenty years of 
age at the time of her death. 

Upon being asked by the judge whether her daughter led a strict- 
ly moral life, Mme. Lemarque replied that her conduct was purity 
itself as compared with that of many ladies who acted in fairy 
pieces. 

“ But there was some one, perhaps,” insinuated the judge. 
“ There is always some one. So beautiful a woman must have had 
many admirers. 1 have her photograph here. It is an exquisite 
face, a beauty quite out of the common — refined, spiritual. Surely 
among her many admirers there must have been one whom she 
favored above all the rest?” 

“ Yes, there was one, and it was that one who murdered my 
daughter and Monsieur de Maucroix. No one can doubt it.” 

“ But you have no actual knowledge of the fact? You speak 
upon conjecture?” 

“ IVho else should murder her? Whom did she ever injure, poor 
child? She was amiability itself — the kindest of comrades, charita- 
ble, good.” 

“ What do you know of this person whom you suspect?” 

“ Nothing except that which 1 heard from my daughter.” 

“ Did you ever see him?” 


no 


wyllakd’s weird. 


" Kever. It he bad been the emperor be could not have been 
more mysterious in bis goings to and fro. 1 was never allowed to 
see him.” 

“ Was be often at your daughter’s apartment?” 

” Very often. He used to go there after the theater. , He was de- 
voted to her. There w’^ere some who believed that be was her bus- 
band, that be loved her too passionately to deny her anythin s: she 
might ask. When she was not acting be took her abroad — to Italy 
— to Spain. If it were only for a holiday for a fortnight be would 
carry her off to some remote village in Switzerland or the Pyrenees. 
1 used to tell her that be was ashamed of his love for her, or he 
would not have hidden her in those lonely places. He would nave 
taken her to Dieppe or Arcachon, where they would have met their 
friends.” 

” Did you ever find out who this person is?” 

” Never.” 

” But you must know something about him and his circum- 
stances. Was he a nobleman, or did he belong to the mercantile 
class?” 

” 1 know nothing, except that he was rich. He showered gifts 
upon my daughter. He would have taken her off the stage if she 
w^ould have allowed him. He would have given her a house and 
gardens at Bougival instean of her little apartment on a third floor 
in the Rue Lafilte, but she loved the theater, and she had a proud 
spirit, poor child; she had not the temper of la femme entretenue,'' 
What was the name of this person?” 

” Monsieur Georges. 1 never heard of him by any other name.” 

” Did your daughter reciprocate this passion?” 

” For a long time she seemed to do so. They were like lovers in 
a story. That lasted for years — from the lime of her first appear- 
ance at the Porte St. Martin, wdiich was four years before her death. 
And then tl:ere came a change. Monsieur de Maucroix fell in love 
with her, tollow^ed her about everywhere, worshiped her. And he 
was young and handsome and fascinating, with the style and man- 
ners of a prince. He had spent all his lite in palaces: had been at- 
tached to the emperor’s household from his boyhood; had fought 
bravely through the war.’^ 

” Had you reason to know that Monsieur Georges w^as jealous of 
Monsieur de Maucroix?” 

” Yes, my daughter told me that there had been scenes.” 

” Had the two men met?” 

”1 think not.” 

” How long had Monsieur de Maucroix been an avowed admirer 
of your daughter?” 

” Only a few months— since Easter, 1 think. My granddaughter 
used to see him when she was staying with her aunt.” 

” Could you rc^concile it to 5 ’our conscience to allow 3 mur grand- 
child to live in the house of an aunt who was leading— well—we will 
say a doubtful lite?” 

” There was no harm in my daughter’s life that 1 knew of. Mon- 
sieur Georges may have been my* daughter’^ husband. There is no 
reason that he should not have been. At her lodgings she was 


wyllakd’s weird. Ill 

known as Matlame Georges. ’ It was under that name she traveled 
when she vrent abroad.” 

“ But you had never heard of any marriage — at theMairieor else- 
where? And, again, your daughter could not be married without 
your consfiDt.” 

“ 1 do not say that she had been married in France. She may 
have been married abroad — in England, perhaps. He took her to 
England soon after they became acquainted. And in England there 
are no obstacles to mariiage; there is no one’s consent to be asked.” 

‘‘We will admit that a marriage in a foreign country would iiaye 
been possible. But this Monsieur de Maucroix, this second ad- 
mirer — ” 

“ Was only an admirer. My daughter’s life was not a disreputa- 
ble life. 1 have nothing to reproach myself with upon that score.” 

” Can you help us find this man Georges, whom - you suspect as 
the murderer? Do you know where he is to be found?” 

” If 1 did the police would have known before now. 1 tell you 1 
know nothing about him — absolutely nothing. I have seen and 
heard nothing of him since the murder. He has not been to my 
daughter’s apartment since her death— he was not at her funeral. 
He who pretended to adore her did not follow her to the grave. All 
Paris was there; but he who was supposed to be her husband was 
not there.” 

” How can you tell that he was not there, since you do not know 
his appearance?” 

” Barbe Girot knows him. It is on her authority that 1 say he 
was not there.” 

” That will be sufidcient for to-day. 1 will take Barbe Girot’s 
evidence next. ” 

Barbe Girot’s evidence was to the effect that for nearly four years 
this M. Georges had been a frequent visitor at her mistress’s apart- 
ment. He had come there after the theater, and it had been Barbe’s 
duty to leave the supper-table laid, and the candles ready on the 
chimne 5 ^-piece and table, before she went to bed. Mme. Georges let 
herself in with a latch-key, and Barbe rarely sat up for her. Ma- 
dame did not always return to the Rue Lafitte for supper. There 
were occasions when she supped on the Boulevard, in the Bois, 
goodness knows where. Barbe saw M. Georges occasionally, but 
not frequently. He was a handsome man, but not in his first youth. 
He might have been three or four-and-thirly. He was generous, 
and appeared to be rich. Whatever his fortune may have been, he 
would have given madame the whole of it it she had asked him. 
There was never a man more passionately in love with a woman. 
After M. de Maucroix’s appearance on the scene, there were storms. 
Barbe had seen M. Georges cry like a child. She had also seen him 
give way to violent passion. There had been one night when she 
thought that he would kill madame.' He had his hands upon her 
throat; he seemed as if he were going to strangle her; and then he 
fell on his knees and groveled at her feet. He implored her to for- 
give him. It w^s dreadful. 

Did Barbe Girot think that M. Georges was madame ’s husband? 

She had never presumed to form an opinion upon that subject. 
Her mistress wore a wedding-ring, and was always known as Mme. 


11 ^ 


wyllard’s weird. 


Georges in the bouse where she liv-ed. Madame’s conduct was alto- 
gether irreproachable. Until M. de Maucroix began to visit her, no 
other man than M. Georges had crossed her threshold. And the 
visits ot M. de Maucroix were such visits as any gentleman in Paris 
might pay to an^ lady, were slie the highest in the land. 

“ Did your mistress ever go out with Monsieur de Maucroix be- 
fore that fatal visit to St. Germain?” 

“ Never. And on that occasion madame took the little girl with 
her. She retused to go alone with Monsieur de Maucrorx.” 

“ Is it your opinion that your mistress was inclined to favor Mon- 
sieur de Maucroix’s suit?” 

“ Alas! yes. He was so young,., so fascinating, so handsome, 
and he adored her. If she had not been in love with him, she would 
hardly have permitted his visits, for they were the cause of such 
agony of mind to Monsieur Georges.” 

“ It is your belief then that she had transferred her affection from 
the older to the younger lover?” 

“1 fear so.” 

” Y'ou have not seen Monsieur Georges since the murder?” 

“No.” 

“ Are you sure that he was not at fhe funeral?” 

“ Quite sure.” 

“ But there was a great crowd at the cemetery. How can you be 
sure that he was not in the crowd?” 

“ 1 can not be sure of that, but I am sure that he paid my mis- 
tress no honor. He was not among those who stood around her 
grave, or who threw flowers upon her coflin. I stayed by the grave 
after all was over and the crowd had dispersed, but Monsieur 
Georges never came near to cast a look upon the spot where my 
poor mistress was lying. He has not b^n at her apartment since 
her death — he never came to look upon her corpse when it was lying 
there.” 

“ And he has not written — he has given no orders as to the dis* 
posal of your mistress’s property?” 

“ No. Ifladame Lemarque has taken possession ot everything. 
She is living in my mistress’s apartment until the furnilure can b^e 
sold.” 

“ Do you know of any photograph or portrait of Monsieur Georges 
among ^mur late mistress’s possessions?” 

“ I never saw any such portrait.” 

“ You would know Monsieur Georges wherever you might hap- 
pen to see him ?” 

“Yes. 1 do not think 1 could fail to recognize him.” 

“ Even it he had disguised himself?” 

“ Even then. 1 think 1 should know his voice anywhere, even if 
1 could not see his face.” 

“ Will you describe him?” 

“ He is a tall man, broad-shouldered, powerful-looking. He has 
fine features, blue eyes, light brown hair, thick and flowing, and 
worn much longer than, most people wear their hair. He is not so 
handsome or so elegant as Monsieur de Maucroix, but he has a more 
commanding look.” 


wyllard’s weird. 


113 


That description would apply to hundreds of men. Can you 
mention any peculiarity of feature, expression, gait, manner?” 

“ No, I can recall nothing peculiar.” 

“ And ill moments of confidence did your mistress never tell you 
anything about this Monsieur Georges, his profession, his belong- 
ings, his place of residence?” 

“ Nothing.” 

He did not live at your mistress’s apartment, 1 conclude?” 

” No, he did not live there.” 

“ Did you never hear how he was occupied during the day — since 
you say lie was never at your mistress’s apartment in the day-time?” 

“ Never. 1 was told nothing about him except that he was rich 
and a gentleman. 1 asked no questions. My place was comfort- 
able, my wages were paid regularly, and madame was kind to me.” 

“ Where did Leonie Lemarque sleep when she stayed in the Rue 
Lafitte?” 

“ She occupied a little bed in my room, which is inside the 
kitchen.” 

” Were you long in madame’s service?” 

” Nearly four years. From the beginning of her engagement at 
the Porte St. Martin, when she took the apartment in the Rue 
Lafitte. Her salary at the theater justified her in taking such an 
apartment. Before that time she had been living with her mother 
on the other side of the Seine.” 

” It is your opinion that Monsieur Georges was the murderer?” 

” That is my fixed opinion.” 

This concluded the examination of Barbe Girot. 

The little girl’s examination was not resumed until ten days later. 
She had been very ill in the meantime, and seemed altogether weak 
and broken down when she was bi ought before the Juge d* Instruc- 
tion. She burst out crying in the midst of her evidence, and the 
grandmother had great difidculty in calming her. 

“We had a very nice dinner, and Monsieur de Maucroix was so 
kind, and gave me grapes, and a big peach, and he promised to buy 
me a doll next day in the Passage Jouffroy. My aunt was sad, and 
Monsieur de Maucroix begged her to be gay, and he talke'd about 
taking her to Italy with him, just as he had talked in the train. 
And then we went out in a carriage and drove along a terrace, where 
there was a beautiful view over a river, hills, and valleys. My aunt 
seemed much gayer, and she and Monsieur de Maucroix were talk- 
ing and laughing all the time, and afterward, when we all got out 
of the carriage and walked in the forest, they both seemed very 
happy, and my aunt rested her head on Monsieur de Maucroix’s 
shoulder as they walked along, and said it was like being in heaven 
to be in tiiat lovely moonlit forest with him; and then, just at that 
moment, a man rushed out from the darkness under the trees, like 
a wild beast out of a cave; and shot, and shot, and shot again, and 
again and again. And first Monsieur de Maucroix fell, and then 
my aunt, and she was all over blood. 1 could see it streamine over 
her white gown, first one stream and then another. 1 can see it 
now. l am seeing it always. It wakes me out of my sleep. Oh, 
take it away— take away the dark forest — take away the blood!” 

At this point, said the report, lire child again became hysterical. 


114 wyllard’s weird. 

and had to be carried away. After this she became dangerousiy 
ill with brain fever, and could not again be interroffated formally. 


CHAPTER XII. 


LEON IE S MISSION. 


The report of the interrogatory before the Juge d/ Instruction was ^ ' 
followed hy a page of notes written by the police-officer Drubarde. 

The child Leonie Lemarq[ue was not again in a condition to give i 
her evidence. A violent attack of brain fever succeeded her second 
appearance before the Juge d' Instruction, and on her recovery from \ 
the fever it was found that her mind bad sufiered seriously from j 
the shock she had undergone. Memory was a blank. I’he Juge j 
d]Instruction visited her in her own home when she was convalescent, | 
and tried to recall the impressions made upon her at the time of 1 
the murder, in the hope of identifying the murderer; but she had 1 
forgotten the whole circumstances of her aunt’s death, yet suffered 
agonies from a vague terror associated in her enfeebled mind with 
the very name of that aunt. ^ 

As soon as she was well enough to travel she was taken to the 
convent of Hinan by a gbod priest who had befriended her grand- I 
mother for many years. After this transference to the convent the j 
police lost sight of the child Lemarque. 

Throughout the evening, and in the wakeful intervals of a some- 
what disturbed night, Edward Heathcote brooded over the details - ^ 
of the evidence which he had read— not once, but several times, be- 
fore he closed the volume of reports. ' 

The detective instinct, which is a characteristic of every well- J 
trained lawyer’s mind, had been suddenly developed into almost a 
passion. He no longer limited his desire to the unraveling , of the j 
web of Leonie Lemarque’s fate; he ardently longed to discover the 
mystery of Marie PrevoTs murder — to succeed where one of the 
most accomplished Parisian detectives had ignominiously failed. | 
His eagerness to hear more about Drubarde’s efforts and failures in ^ 
this particular case led him to the Quai de Grands Augustins at an j 
early hour, in time to surprise the worthy Andre in the act of break- 
fasting temperately upon cafe au lait and boiled eggs. ? 

Monsieur Drubarde gave his new friend a cheery welcome. It i 
was a lovely morning, balmy as midsummer, and the little garden on j 
the leads was bright with gayly-colored asters, nasturtiums and . 
geraniums, and agreeably perfumed with mignonette. - > 

Do you perceive the exquisite odors?” asked Drubarde. 

“ Your mignonette is delicious.” 

” My mignonette 1” cried the police-officer, scornfully. “Why, 
when the wind blows straight from the flower-market, as it does to- ; 
day, 1 can sit in my garden and enjoy all the perfumes of the Riviera. 

I can revel in orange blossoms, drink my fill of tuberoses and 
stephanotis, Mar echal Neil and Jacqueline roses. And look, what v] 
a view! Not a touch of the sculptor’s chisel that 1 can not see 
yonder on the old kings of Notre Dame; not a cornice or a column ^ 
in the new hospital that does not stand clear in the morning light! j 


wyllakd’s weird. 115 

And yet Paris is peopled with fools who do not make gardens on 
their house-tops.” 

” Perhaps every landlord would not be so complaisant as yours^ 
Monsieur Drubarde, nor every housetop so adapted to horticulture.” 

” True, your Parisian landlord is a churl and a niggard and a 
good many of our house-tops are no doubt impracticable. But the 
inventive mind, the love of the beautiful, is more often wanting. 1 
see you have been good enough to bring back m^^ volume. You 
have read the report, 1 suppose?” 

” Every line, every syllable, three times over.” 

“ And you are Interested?” 

” Deeply. 1 was never more intensely interested in any case that 
has come within my knowledge, and as a lawyer I have become 
acquainted with many strange stories. Yes, 1 am more interested 
than 1 can say in the fate of that unhappy actress, in the character 
ol her mysterious lover; and yet 1 doubt it this former crime has 
any bearing upon the murder of Leonie Lemarque.” 

‘‘ It would certainly be going somewhat far to suppose a link be- 
tween the death of a girl traveling alone in Cornwall — a death which 
may, alter all, have been accidental— and the murder of an actress 
ten years before in the forest of Si. Germain, However, it is only 
by the minutest scrutiny of Leonie’s past life that you can arrive 
at the motive which took her to England, and discover whether she 
had an enemy in that country— that is to say, it she was lured across 
the Channel in order to be made away with by that enemy. A very 
wild and far-fetched supposition 1 think you will admit, monsieur, 
and one which our talented friend, Mr. Distin, would not entertain 
for five. minutes.” 

” Professional acumen like Mr. Distin’s is apt to run in grooves 
— to be loo intent upon following the practical and the possible to 
shut out the romantic element, to strangle the imagination, and to 
forget that :t is very often by following the seemingly impossible 
that we arrive at the truth.” 

“ 1 see you are an enthusiast, monsieur.” 

” 1 have never tried to subjugate my imagination. As a lawyer ' 
] found ideality tne most useful faculty of the brain. Now, 1 have 
been thinking about Leonie Lemarque’s fate from eveiy possible 
point of view, from the standpoint of my modest imagination, as 
well as from the standpoint of common-sense, and it has occurred 
to me that if the murderer of Marie Prevol is living he would he 
Leonie’s natural enemy.” 

“Why so?” 

” Because she was the only witness of his crime. She alone 
would have the power to identify Jiim as the murderer.” 

” You forget that it is just that power which the poor girl lost in 
consequence of the horror of that scene of which she was the solitary 
witness. Ihe fever deprived her of memory.” 

” That effect of the fever may not have been permanent. The 
agitation which she showed at the mention of her aunt’s name — 
when Sister Gudule questioned her about the silk handkerchief 
given to her by Marie Prevol — would indicate that memory was not a 
blank. And again,, if she had forgotten the person of the murderer, 


116 


wyllard’s weird. 

or even the fact ot the murder, he would not know that, and would 
regard her existence as a source ot danger to himself.” 

Andre Diubarde smiled the superior smile of experience reprov- 
ing folly. 

“ And you think that after having allowed this one witness of his 
crime to exist unmolested for ten years, the assassin all at once took 
it into his head to murder her, that with this view he carried her to 
your barbarous country of Cornuailles, and there flung her over an 
embankment. 1 am tempted to paraphrase the Scripture, monsieur, 
and to exclaim, ‘ Are there not viaducts and embankments in this 
little France of ours, that a man should go to the remote west of 
England in order to commit murder in thaf particular fashion?’ ” 
ilr. Heathcote felt that the police-ofiicer had the best ot the argu- 
ment. 

“ 1 grant that it would have been a clumsy method of getting rid 
of the girl,” he said, ‘‘ but murder has been clumsily done before 
to-day, and imagination can conceive no crime so improbable as not 
to be paralleled by fact. However, it is perhaps too soon to specu- 
late that the murderer of Marie Prevol was also the murderer of 
Leonie Lemarque. What we have to do is to find out the reason 
ot the girl’s journey to England. But before we set about that task 
1 should like you to tell me what steps you took in your endeavor 
to trace the murderer, alter the examination before the Juge 
d' Instruction 

“ 1 looked over the case in. my note;book last night, as 1 was 
prepared for you to ask for those details,” replied Drubarde. ” It 
was a case that inter esteii me profoundly, all the more so, perhaps, 
because 1 made so little headway in my investigations. My first 
endeavor was to trace the murderer’s proceedings immediately after 
the crime. He must have made his escape from bt. Germain some- 
how, unless he had killed himself in some obscure corner of the 
wood. Even then, the finding of the body would have been a ques- 
tion of so many days, weeks, or months. Alive, it would have been ! 
impossible for him to remain in hiding in the forest for a week; as 
the. wood was searched thoroughly during the three days immediately 
succeeding the muider. On the third day, a bat was found in a ^ 
boggy bit of ground, ever so far from the s(ene ot Ihe murdei. The 
hat was a gentleman’s hat, but it had been lying there three days ; 
and three nights in a bog. It had been rained upon for two days 
out of the three — there was no maker’s name — no indication by - 
which the owner of the hat could be traced. That it had been found 
so far oft seemed to me to prove that the murd.eier had been roaming * 
the wood in a wild and disordered frame of mind, and w’alking at a I 
tremendous pace, or he could never have got over the distance be- '! 
tween the time when he wasseei^y the waiter at the Henri Quatre, ^ 
to turn the corner of the terrace, and the period of the murder.” ^ 
“You believe, then, that the man seen by the waiter was actually J 
the murderer?” | 

“ 1 have no doubt of it. That spasmodic walk, that hesitancy, | 
the looking back, and then hurrying on— all these indicated a mind J 
engaged upon some agitating theme. The man was seen watching l 
the window inside which Marie Prevol ai^d her admirer were ^eated. J 
He moved away when he saw himself observed. He had disguised 1 


wyllard’s weird. 


117 


himself as much as he could, by turning up the collar of his coat. 
These are all details that point to one conclusion. The finding of 
the hat induced me to visit every shop in Saint Germain, where a 
hat could be bought. It was clear that the murderer could not have 
gone tar from the lorest bareheaded, without attracting attention, lie 
must have got himselt a hat somehow ; and it was not long before 
1 ascertained that a hat had been got. At the principal shop Iwas 
told that a boy, a gamin, had come in on the night of the murder, 
and had asked for a cloth traveling-cap. He had chosen one with 
fiaps to protect the ears, a form of cap intended to give the utmost 
protection from cold. He paid for his purchase with a napoleon, 
and seemed in a great hUrry-to be gone, not even stopping to count 
his change. The shopkeeper had wondered at such a little raga- 
rnuflln being intrusted with a purchase of the kind. The man had 
been on the point of closing his shop, and, therefore, was quite posi- 
tive as to the hour. It was his invariable habit to put up his shut- 
ters at nine o’clock, and the clock was striking as the boy came to 
the door of the shop, breathless and heated, as if he had been run- 
ning for some distance.” 

“And you conclude that this traveling-cap was bought for the 
murderer?” 

” Hear the sequel, and judge for yourself. 1 went from the hat- 
ter’s to the railway station, and there, after having been bandied 
about from pillar to post, 1 succeeded in finding a tolerably intelli- 
gent official who remembered the night of the murder — then ten 
days passed— and who could recall most of the passengers who had 
left for Paris by the half-past nine o’clock train upon that particular 
night. The news of the murder had not been brought to the station 
before the starting of the train; a most criminal neglect on the part 
of the local police. No suspicious- looking person had been observed 
to enter the trains, but upon my questioning him closely the man 
remembered having noticed a traveler who w^ore a cloth cap with 
flaps over the ears— a seemingly needless protection upon a mild 
September evening. ‘There is one who takes care of himself,’ 
the railway official had thought. For the rest, this passenger had 
looked like a gentleman, tall, erect, well-built, a biirirer man than 
the majority of Frenchmen — what the railway official permitted 
himself to call un hel liomme. Had he appeared agitated, breath- 
less, and in a hurry? No, the official had noticed nothing extraor- 
dinary in his m:inner. He had a return ticket tor Paris. The train 
was scarcely out of the station when the police came to make in- 
quiries. The murder had been known at the police station at a 
quarter-past eight, and it was not until after half-past nine that the 
police thought of setting a watch upon the railway station. That is 
how your rustic police favor the escape of a criminal.” 

Did you trace your gentleman in the cloth cap any further?” 

“ Not an inch. No one had observed him at Saint Lazare, nor at 
any intermediate station where the train stopped. 1 wearied myself 
during the next six weeks in the endeavor to trace the man called 
Georges, who must have had some loc.al habitation in Paris besides 
Marie Prevol’s apartment. In vain. In no quarter of Paris could 
1 hear of any apartment occupied by a man answering to the de- 
scription of this man who called himselt Georges— rich, independent, 


118 


AVYLLARD'S WEIRD. 


liandsome, in the prime of life. 1 could trace no such man amonc: 
ihe prosperous classes of Paris, and my machinery for tracking: apy 
inUividual in the wilderness ot Paris had hitherto proved almost 
infallible. This man baffled me. 1 ‘ touched on him ’ now and 
again, as you English say of your hunted fox, but I could never get 
upon a scent strong enough to follow; and in the end 1 gave up 
all hope of finding him. He must have sneaked out of France 
under the very noses of the police, for l .had set a watch upon 
every probable exit from this countr 3 ^” 

“ ISo doubt he was clever enough to choose the improbable. Did 
you see much of Madame Lemarque after the murder?’' 

“ No; my interest in her ceased when 1 gave up Ihe case as ho[»c- 
less. I had fresh cases— new interests, and the murder of Marie 
Prevol remained in my mind only as a tradition, until you recalled 
the story of the crime.” 

“ 1 telegraphed yesterday to the principal ot the Ursuline Convent 
at Dinan,” said Mi. Heatlicote, ” and 1 have obtained from her the 
address at which Madame Lemarque was living two years ago, when 
her niece was sent back to T^aris in company with other pupils. 
After leaving you 1 shall go to that address, and try to find Madame 
Lemarque. 1 may have the painful duty of informing her of Ler 
granddaughter’s death; and yet lean but think that were the grand- 
mother still living she must have heard of the girl’s death, and 
would have communicated with the Cornish police.” 

” That is to suppose her more intelligent than the average French- 
woman,” said Drubarde, as if he belonged to another nation. 
” Suppose 1 accompany you in your search for Madame Lemarque. 
That ought to be interesting.” 

” I shall he delighted to secure your aid.” 

M. Drubarde and his guest descended the ladder. The detective 
put on a gray overcoat, which concealed and subjugated the airiness 
of his summer attire. He put on the hat of sober commonplace 
existence, and altogether contrived to make himself almost patri- 
archal before he left his lodging. 

The street in which Mme. Lemarque had been living when the 
nuns ot Dinan last heard of her was a narrow and shabby little street 
between St. Sulpice and the Luxembourg. The house was decently 
kept, and had a respectable air, and w^as evidently not one of those 
caramnseraia where lodgers come and go with every term. It had 
a settled, sober air, and the brass plates upon the door told of per- 
manent residents, witli respectable avocations. One of these plates 
informed society that Mesdames Lemarque and Beaiiville, Bobes et 
Modes, occupied the third floor. The staircase was clean and quiet, 
and the first sound that saluted Mr. Heathcote’s ears as he went up- 
stairs was the screech of a parrot, which became momentarily louder 
as the visitors approached the third floor. 

On the door on the left of the landing appeared another brass 
p1ate-r“ Mesdames Lemarque et Beauville, Robes, Modes, Cha- 
peaux.” 

Mr. Heathcote rang the bell. He fell curiously agitated at the 
thought that in the next minute he might be face to face with the 
dead girl’s grandmother. 

The door was opened by an elderl.y w^oman in black, very sallow^ 


t 


119 


wyllard's weird. 

very thin, with prominent cheek-bones, and hungry black eyes. She 
was neatly clad, her rusty silk gown fitting her fleshless tor m to 
pertection, her linen collar and cuffs spotlessly clean, her iron- 
gray hair carefully arranged; but poverty was stamped upon every 
fold of her gown, and written in every line upon her forehead. 

“ Madame Lemarqiie?” inquired Mr. Heathcote, while the a- 
devant police-officer looked over his shoulder. 

“No, 1 am not Madame Lemarqiie, but I amlier business repre- 
sentative. Any orders intended for Madame Lemarque can be exe- 
cuted by me. 1 am Mademoiselle Beauville.” 

“ Alas, mademoiselle, it is not a question of orders,’’ replied 
Heathcote, in his most courteous tones. “ 1 have come on a pain- 
ful errand. 1 have to inipart very sad news to Madame Lemarque.” 

Mile. Beauville sighed and shrugged her thin shoulders. 

“ Madame Lemarque is lying at rest in a place where nil the events 
of this earth are alike indifferent,” she said. “ Take the trouble to 
enter my hunible apartment, gentlemen. Madame Lemarque was 
my partner and my friend.” 

Heathcote and his companion followed the dress-maker into her 
little salorij where a very old gray cockatoo was clambering upon 
a perch, seemingly in danger of doing himself to death head down- 
ward at every other minute. The salon was like the appearance of 
Mile. JKeauville, scrupulously neat, painfully pinched and spare. A 
poor-little old-fashioned walnut table, polished to desperation, a cheap 
little china vase of common flowers, a carpet which covered only a 
small island in an ocean of red tiles, an old mahogany secretaire, 
with materials for writing and, by way of decoration, the fashion' 
plates of “ Le Follet ” neatly pinned against the dingy wall-paper. 
There was a work basket on the table, and Mile. Beauville had ap- 
parently been busily remaking a very old gown of her own in order 
to keep her hand in during the dead season. 

Mr. Heathcote discovered later that Mile. Beauville cherished one 
bitter and unappeasable hatred, and that was against Messrs. iSpricht, 
Van Korb, and the whole confraterinty of men-milliners. 

“ Then Madame Lemarque is dead, I apprehend, mademoiselle?” 

“ Madame Lemarque died last June.” 

“ Suddenly?” 

“No; she had been- ailing for some time. But the end came 
more quickly than she expected. My poor friend had but a short 
time in which to arrange her affairs.” 

“ as her granddaughter, Leonie, living with her at the time of 
her death?” 

“ She was. But what do you know about Leonie?” 

The ex-detective laid his hand hastily upon Mr. Heathcote’s wrist 
before he could answer 

“ Answer nothing until we have heard what she can tell us,” he 
whispered. 

“ 1 know very little about her, but 1 am anxious to know more; 
and if you should be a loser by the waste of your time in answering 
my inquiries, 1 shall be most happy to recompense you for that 
loss,” said Heathcote. 

The spinster’s hungry eyes sparkled. Decent poverty has depths 
unknown to the professed pauper. Mademoiselle’s larder would 


130 


wyllakd’s weird. 


have exhibited a touching spectacle to the eye of the philosopher or • 
physiologist. The philosopher would have wondered that woman 
can endure with such patience, the physiologist would have been 
surprised that humanity can sustain life upon so little. For weeks 
past Mile. Beauville’s most luxurious idea of dinner had been an 
egg. For the last week her daily ration had been two halfpenny 
rolls. 

“ Tell me all ydn can about your friend and her grandchild?’’ 
asked lleathcote, eagerly. “lam particularly interested in know- 
ing everything; but as" it is dry work talking, and as neither my ' 
friend nor I have lunched, it might be a good idea to get a bottle of 
Bordeaux and a few biscuits, if mademoiselle will permit us to re- 
fresh ourselves in her apartment.” 

His keen glance had noted the hollow cheeks and glittering eyes 
of the dress-maker, and he wanted an excuse for giving life and 
warmth to that impoverished form. Drubarde caught at the idea, 
thinking that his client’s design w^as to loosen the lady’s tongue by 
the agency of Bacchus. It was altogether an amateur’s notion, 
crude, wanting in subtlety; but the genial Druharde was willing to 
indulge a beginner who w^as feeling his way in the elements of a 
great art. 

“ I’ll fetch a bottle of wine myself,” he said, cheerily; “ 1 know 
where 1 can get one close by, and of the best.” 

“Bring two,” said lleathcote; “ mademoiselle will accept Iho 
second by w^ay of souvenir.” 

“ Monsieur, do you wish to make me a drunkard? 1 have not 
tasted wine since my poor friend’s death,” said Mile. Beauville, but 
there was a look in her face which told Heathcote that his gift would . 
not be unwelcome. ’ 

Drubarde ran down-stairs like a boy, and was back in five min- 
utes, carrying a couple of sealed bottles, labeled St. Estephe, and a 
large bag of biscuits. 

Mademoiselle had set out a tray in the meantime, with her poor 
little stock of glasses, three in all, and one of those cracked, and an 
old china plate for the biscuits. Again her eyes glistened when 
she saw the bigness of the biscuit bag. 

“ Let me look at the name on the bag,” said Heathcote. ^ 

Strange, it was the very name upon that biscuit bag which he j 
carried at this moment, neatly folded in his pocket-book, the bag ^ 
which had been found in the second-class carriage from which the ' 
girl fell. " ' 

“And now, mademoiselle, tell me all you can about your de- i 
ceased friend and her granddaughter. You had known Madame i 
Lemarque for some time, 1 conclude?” 

“ 1 had lived with her for nearly ten years.” 

“For nearly ten years! Then you must have joined your fort- ] 
unes with hers very soon after the murder of her daughter, Marie ; 
Prevol?” 

“You have heard of that terrible event, then, monsieur?” asked 
the dress maker. “ It is so long since it happened, that I thought it 
had been forgotten by all the world except me.” i 

“No, mademoiselle, a tragedy so terrible as that can never be. 


wyllard’s weird. 121 

forgotten by those who study the mystery ot crime. 1 am keenly 
interested in tracing the murderer of Marie Prevol.” 

“ After tenyearsi” exclaimed Mile. Deauville, with an incredu- 
lous smile. “ Only a dreamer could think of such a thing, mon- 
sieur.” 

“ Then 1 am such a dreamer, mademoiselle, and 1 hope you will 
help me to realize my dream.” 

^ “ Does monsieur know that Monsieur Mardoche, one of the most 

* distinguished of our Juges d/ Instruction, took up this case warmly 
— that the police were never more earnest than in their endeavor to 
lind poor Marie PrevoFs murderer? Does monsieur know that it 
was a double murder, and that Monsieur de IMaucroix, a young man 
of high family and large fortune, was also a victim? Does mon- 
sieur suppose that his friends were idle— that no inducement was 
offered to the police?” 

“ 1 am aware ot all this, mademoiselle, and 1 know that the 
cleverest police in the world—” 

' “ Except Russia; we must always bow to the superior genius of 
the North,” interjected M. Drubarde. 

“ 1 am aware that the police failed. But you must consider, 
mademoiselle, that when *1110 police of Paris were keenest in their 
pursuit of the assassin, the assassin was most upon his guard. The 
consciousness of his crime, the horror of his position, intensified 
his intelligence. He had but one thought, to escape detection. 
His whole life was planned with that purpose. But now ten years 
have gone by— ten years of security — the murderer may be- less 
guarded, more open to detection. He will have grown careless — 
foolhardy, even — believing that after such an interval detection 
must, be impossible. If mademoiselle will do me the honor to touch 
glasses, we will discuss this question at our leisure.” 

He had filled the three glasses, but he had perceived that the dress- 
maker had a delicacy in ^drinking the wine he had provided, and 
he took up his glass and offered the edge of it to hers, and, embold- 
ened by this friendly movement, the spinster clinked hef glass 
against the rim of his, then against that of the patriarchal L>ru- 
barde, while the cockatoo, wondering at this unwonted revelry, 
screeched his loudest. 

“ To your good health, gentlemen,” faltered the dress-maker, be- 
fore she sipped her wine. 

“ To the speedy discovery of Marie PrevoTs murderer,” said 
Heath cote. 

‘ ‘ Did you know our poor Marie, monsieur, that you are thus in- 
terested in her dark fate?” 

“No, mademoiselle.” 

“ Oh, if you Ifad but known her, I should understand your desire to 
revenge her death. She was so lovely. To know her was to adore her. 
Even a soured old maid such as I could but yield to her charm. She 
was as loving as she was lovable: a clinging disposition, a poetical 
nature. Her life was not blameless, perhaps, who khows? We will 
not scrutinize too closely. She was as different Irom those harpies 
whom one hears of in Paris as a wild rose in the hedge is different 
fiom a jewel that has gone the round of every Monte de Piele, in 
the city. Her heart was true to the last. She had no ambition but 


122 


wyllard’s weird. 


to love and to be loved. The man who absorbed her life for a long 
time, whose hand perhaps slew her, was rich, lavish. He would 
ha^e loaded her with gifts if she had let him — but to the last she 
preserved the same modest ideas^-generous to others, careless to 
herself.” ; 

“ Did you ever see the man who called himself Georges?” J 

Never. He was a man of curious habits. He loved the night ) 

better than the day. Nothing delighted him more than a moonlight ^ 
drive in the Bois after midnight. He patronized the restaurants that 1 
keep open half the night, ^larle and he used to sup together at the (] 

Cafe de Paris, sometimes with one or two chosen friends — but 1 

much more often alone. 1 was not Madame Lemarque’s partner at J 
that time; but 1 occupied a room in the roof of this house, and 1 \ 

used to work by the day for madame and for Marie. 1 have spent ' 

many days working for her in the Hue de Lafitte. 1 maderall her ^ 
gowns, and 1 was proud that she should challenge comparison with 
actresses who squandered their thousands upon such impostors as \ 
^pricht and Van Korb. Imagine, monsieur, a man — a stern rugged j 

nature, which can have no true feeling for the beauty of a womjm's i 

dress — a being of angles and hard lines — a creature without grace or ! 
Jioii, No wonder that square shoulders and pointed elbows have 
come into fashion since men have dictated the dress of women!” 
Mademoiselle had mounted her hobby and was riding furiously — 

” Doubtle^, it is a mistake in art, and one that must be discov- i 
ered before long,” said Heathcote, soothingly; “ but tell me, ] 
mademoiselle, in all your visits to the Rue de Lafitte did you never 
encounter this Monsieur Georges?” 

“Never.” 

“ Strange! And did your friend Mademoiselle Prevol talk much ' 
of this Monsieur Georges?” 

“ Yes, she used to talk to me a great deal about him at one time, ^ 
poor child; 1 think she talked even more freely to me than to her 
mother. Mme. Lemarque was just a little too fond of money, loo 1 
eager for gifts from her child, and that wounded Marie^s generous -j 
nature. ‘ Y"ou value people only for what they can give you,’ said j 

she once to her mother. ‘ If Georges were Satan you woqld like him 
just as well — provided you 'got enough of his mone}".’ And then 
there was a quarrel, as you may suppose, monsieur. There were 
excuses to be made for Madame Lemarque, poor soul. She had been , 
rich once— an atelier in the Rue de la Paix— a country house at As- 1 

nitres — but these man-milliners had spoiled her trade, and at (his , 

time she was very poor, living in those rooms which you see, and \ 

working lor half a dozen shabby customers who ground her to the j 

very dust by their meanness. And then when Maiie gave her ] 

money she spent it recklessly — she ate and drank like a princess — j 

she took a voiture de place whenever she went out; she thought | 

that Marie could never do too much for her or her son’s orphan j 

child, Leonie.” 1 

“ Leonie lived with her grandmother, did she not?” j 

“ Yes, Madame Lemarque had kept her since she was three years j 

old. It was a dull life for a child. She used to sit on a little stool -j 

in that corner, and thread needles for her grandmother. When she : 

was eight years old she could work very neatly; she ran errands I 


wyllakd’s weird. 123 

too. She earned her daily bread, poor child. But her happiest days 
were those she spent with her aunt.^’ 

“ JVladeuioiselie Prevol was good to her?” 

“ Good to her? Yes, and to every one who came in her way. 1 
tell you she was a cieature all sweetness and love.” 

“ And was she devoted to this Monsieur Georges?” 

“ At one time, yes. It was an adoration on both sides. Marie 
used to tell me of their journeys in romantic countries under a 
southern sky; of their happy life far away among the crowd; of his 
boundless love for her, his generosity, his devotion. She had a fever 
in Venice, and he nursed her, and watched beside her bed day and 
night — thirteen days and thirteen nights — till she was out of danger. 
It was a love such as one reads of in poetry.” 

” Have you any reason to think that she was his lawful wife?” 

“ 1 can not tell. His constancy and devotion were those of the best 
of husbands. She wore a wedding-ring, and she was always called 
by his name when they traveled, as well as in her lodgings. It was 
almost at the beginning of their attachment that he took her to Eng- 
land. ’ 1 have sometimes thought that they were married in Eng- 
land.” 

‘‘ Did he Introduce her to his friends in Paris?” 

“ Only a few artists and writers whom she used to meet at sup - 
per. They were some of the wildest young men in Paris.” 

‘‘ But he introduced her to no ladies — to no families of good 
standing?” 

” I doubt if he could have had any such friends. He lived too 
eccentric a life to cultivate what you call respectable acquaintance.” 

“Was he himself an artist?” 

“ 1 think not. He was too rich for a painter or an author.” 

“ And you have never heard of him since Marie PrevoRs death?” 

“Never.” 

“ What became of the jewels and other property which had be- 
longed to Mademoiselle Prevol?” 

“ They were sold by her mother, who lived upon the proceeds of 
the sale for some years. She paid for Leonie's schooling out of the 
same fund. It was onl}^ in the last years of her life that she again 
became poor. She took me into partnership very soon -after her 
daughter’s death. She hsd sent the little girl to a convent, and she 
felt lonely and nervous in these rooms. Her spirits never recovered 
from the shock of that terrible murder — the horror of the night in 
which Leonie was brought home to her by the police from St. Ger- 
main, who told her the history of the murder. She invited me to 
share her apartment, and to work for her, taking half the profit of 
the business. The profits were of the smallest, but 1 had my board 
and lodging; and i was too fond of Madame Leojarque and of 
Jacko,” added the spinster, looking fondly at the cockatoo. 

“ 'That is Madame Lemarque's parrot, 1 conclude?” 

“ Yes; he belonged to poor Marie. Ah! he could tell us a great 
deal, if he would but talk sense instead of repeating foolish songs. 
She bought him from a sailor at Marseilles, and brought him home 
with her after one of her autumn holidays. She used to teach him 
lines from the songs she sung at the theater.” 

Moi, je mi le rudi^ noir,' shrieked the parrot. 


124 


wyllard’s wexrd. 

“You were giving with Madame Lemarque when her grand- 
daughter returned trom Dinan, 1 suppose?’' said Heathcote. 

“ Ah! you seem to know all about it. Yes, 1 was with madame 
when she went to Saint La^re to meet the child. Such a bright, 
pretty girl she had ^rrown— so amiable and clever and industrious. 
1 never thought she would act toward me as she has done.'* 

“ In what way has she acted badly." 

“ 5he vrent to England directly alter her grandmother’s death — that 
is more than two months ago — and she has not written to me once 
since then. No doubt she has found powerful friends—rich friends 
— and has no need of a poor old woman like me " 

“ There may be some other reason for her silence," said Heath- 
cote, gravely. 

“ What other reason?" 

“ Some misfortune — an accident, perhaps. She had to travel by 
steamer and by railway. Might not something have happened?" 

“ 1 have thought of that sometimes," said the drpss-maker, with a 
distressed look; “ and if 1 had had a friend in England — one single 
friend — I should have written to ask that friend to make inquiries. 
But 1 have so few friends — liardly any one in Paris, no one outside 
Paris," she concluded, dejectedly. 

“ But surely you knew Leonie's errand? You knew to whom 
she was going? You might have written to that person." 

“ 1 know nothing. The girl’s errand was a secret from me. On 
her death-bed Madame Lemarque gave her granddaughter some 
commission. There were letters or papers of some kind, I think, 
which she was to take to somebody in England, and that person was 
expected to befriend her. The grandmother was very secret about 
it. She would not speak to Leonie on the subject while 1 was in 
the room, but on re-entering rather suddenly 1 saw some papers on 
the bed. 1 overheard a tew words— something about a friend of 
Monsieur Georges, rich, powerful." 

“ And it was to this friend of Georges, the murderer, that Leonie 
was to appeal for protection and help?" 

“ Remember we are not certain that Georges was the murderer. 
It is only a supposition." 

“ But a supposition so well grounded as to be almost certainty. 
An adoring lover, who disappears immediately after the murder of 
his mistress — a lover who had good ground for jealousy, and is 
known to have been madly jealous, mark you. *A murder that 
could only be inspired by madness, or by jealousy. If these facts 
are not strong enough to condemn Monsieur Georges, what does cir- 
cumstantial evidence mean?" 

“ Don’t talk tome about it," muttered Drubarde, impatiently. 
“ Georges was the murderer. Tee police were at fault in their 
search for him, but they were never in doubt as to his guilt." 

“ And it was to a friend of her daughter’s murderer that Madame 
Lemarque sent her granddaughter?’* 

“ VThat other resources had she, do you think?" exclaimed the 
dress-maker. “ She was dying penniless, friendless, leaving her 
grandchild to the mercy of strangers. She knew that Monsieur 
Georges was a rich man, and that any friend of Monsieur Georges 


wyllard's weird. - 125 

was likely to be well off. 1 dare say she knew no more than the 
name of the friend.” 

“ Did you hear the name?” 

Never. 1 heard her tell Leonie that the gentleman was in Lon- 
don. She would find him at some hotel, the name of which 1 for- 
get.” 

” Would you recognize it if you heard it?” asked Ileathcote. 

” Perhaps. 1 am not sure.” 

He went over the names of the principal hotels, without success. 
Mile. Beauville could not remember to have heard any one of them. 

“You are sure that Mademoiselle Lemarque was to to Lon- 
don,” inquired Heathcote, “ and no further than London? You 
heard no mention of Cornwall or Plymouth?” 

He repeated the names of county and town— ffivins each the true 
Gallic intonation — but they suggested nothing to Mile. Beauville. 

“ She was to go to London — nowhere else. But why do you ask?” 

“ 1 will tell you that presently. Did Leonie Lemarque leave Paris 
immediately atter her grandmother’s death?” 

“ She left the evening after the funeral. She did not even wait 
to get a mourning gown made. She had worn a black gown belong- 
ing to me at the funeral, and she changed it for her little gray gown 
before she left.” 

“ Did she take no luggage?” 

“ Only a chimge of linen in a hand-bag.” 

“ How did she travel?” 

“ She went from the Station du Nord at eight o’clock. 1 walked 
to the station with her, poor child. We were both very sad and 
very tired. She was to cross from Dover to Calais in the night, and 
she would arrive in London early next morning. She promised me 
to write on the day of her arrival. 1 told her that 1 thought it was 
a dangerous thing for a young girl to go alone to meet a stranger, a 
man whose face she had never seen. She said her grandmother had 
told her that he was a good and honorable man, and she was to trust 
him. She begged me not to nsk her any questions. Her grand- 
mother had warned her to say nothing worth telling me. When 1 
pressed her to give me her confidence she began to cry, but 1 man- 
aged to find out that she was going to Dondon with the idea of be- 
ing placed in some rich and aristocratic family where she would be 
a companion to the children and teach them her own language. She 
was not accomplished enough to be a governess of a superior kind. ” 

“ How did she get the money for her journey?” 

“ Her grandmother gave it her on her death-bed, but as there had 
been hardly any money in the house for the last week of Madame 
Lemarque’s illness, 1 concluded that this money had been sent from 
the person in England in reply to an application from Madame 
Lemarque.” 

“ Did you post any English letter during your friend’s illness?,” 

“ I did not, but Leonie may have done so. She went out every 
day upon some errand or other. And now, monsieur, pray tell me 
how YOU came to know all about Leonie, and if you have any bad 
news tor me?” 

“ Alas, mademoiselle, 1 have the worst possible news. Your 
young friend is dead. ” 


126 


wyllard’s weird. 


“ Dead! And there was no one to tell me. The gentleman who 
was to befriend her, to whom she went as to a protector and Dene- 
tactor, he did not even take the trouble to tell me her fate.” 

“ She may never have found him, poor child. She may have 
been lured away from her destination and from London by a villain. 
She met ner death more than two hundred miles from London. She 
fell from a railway bridge, and was killed instantly; but whether 
that death was an accident or a murder no one yet knows except the 
Great Judge of all human actions.” 

” You believe it was — ” 

Murder. 1 am here to discover the motive of that crime,” 


CHAPTER Xill. 

A STUDENT OF MEN AND WOMEN. 

There was a silence of some minutes, during which Mile. Beaiu 
ville wept quietly. And then Heathcole and the ex-police-officer 
rose to take leave. 

” 1 thank you sincerely, mademoiselle, for having given me all 
the information in your power to give, andl must beg you to accept 
some small compensation for the time I have wasted,” said Mr. 
Heathcote, slipping a couple of twenty-franc pieces into the aress- 
maker’s hand. 

The poor creature’s eyes shone with a feverish light as her skinny 
iingers closed upon the gold. It was like manna dropped from 
heaven. Long and weary weeks had passed since her robes et modes 
had brought her so much money. Her chief cuslomers of late had 
been the grise.ttes of the quarter, who had dribbled out their pay- 
ments by two or three francs at a time, and who had exacted the 
maximum of labor for the minimum of pay. Mademoiselle’s hol- 
low cheeks were flushed with the wrarm red wine, her heart glowed 
with the thought that she could now pay her last term to the Har- 
pagon landlord, not much worse, perhaps, than the rest of his species, 
but all landlords seem liarpagons when they claim their due from 
the penniless, 

‘‘Monsieur is too good, too generous,” murmured the spinster; 
“ 1 should refuse all remuneration, only work has been so slack of 
late — ” 

” Not one word, mademoiselle. Stay, 1 have one more question, 
and that an important one, to ask before 1 take my leave. Can you 
give me the exact date upon which Leonie licmarque left Paris tor 
Dover?” 

” Assuredly, monsieur. It was on the fourth of July.” 

” The fourth! And it was on the evening of the fifth she met 
with her death. You say she carried a small hand-bag containing 
linen?” 

“Yes. Her clothes were of the fewest, dear child, but ever}^- 
thing she had was neat and nice of its kind. She had a change of 
linen with her.” 

“ Had she nothing else in the ba^?” 


wyllard’s weird. 


127 


“ Yes, 1 went into the room while she was packing, and 1 sa\y 
her put in a small packet sealed up in paper, which she took from, 
-under her pillow^ 1 had seen the same packet under her grand- 
mother’s pillow before she died. It looked like a parcel of letters or 
papers of some kind.’^ 

“Do you know what station Leonie was to arrive at?” 

“ Y"es. It was the terminus of Charing.” 

“ Charing Cross?” 

“ Precisely. It was a double name like that.” 

“ Good. Adieu, mademoiselle, my friend and 1 may come to 
you asrain perhaps to make further inquiries.” 

“ You shall be very welcome, monsieur. And if you discover the 
secret of my poor young friend/s fate you will tell me — ” 

“Assuredly.” 

“ One word, monsieur. Where is poor little Leo^iie buried? Has 
she a decent grave in your English land?” 

“ She lies in a rustic church-yard under a great yew tree. There 
is a stone upon her grave with a brief record of when and how she 
met her death. Her name and age shall now be added to the in- 
scription.” 

“ Indeed, monsieur! But what kind friend was it who placed a 
stone over the grave of a nameless stranger?” 

“ That was my care. It was* a very small thing to* do.” 

“ Ah, monsieur, it is in doing these small things that a great heart 
shows itself.” 

Mr. Heathcote and his companion made their adieux, accompa- 
nied to tlie landing by the spinster, who felt as if she had entertained 
angels unawares; but when the sound of their footsteps had died 
away upon the stairs, she went back to her room and wept over the 
fate ot her young friend. 

“ 1 have nothing left in this world to love but you,” she said, pit- 
eously, addressing the cockatoo, which screeched sympathetically. 

It was one o’clock by the time Mr. Heathcote and M. Drubarde 
left the dress-maker’s apartment, so the Englishman suggested a 
light luncheon at the Restaurant Laperousse, within a stone’s throw 
of Drubarde’s apartment; and the suggestion being received fa- 
vorably by the ex-policeman, they were soon afterward seated at a 
little table, in a private room with a window overlooking the river, 
ready to do justice to the plat du jour, fxfricandeau aux epinards, 
and a bottle of Mouton-Botlischild. The wine-bibbing at the dress- 
maker’s apartment had been merely a benevolent excuse for provid- 
ing the spinster with a little good Bordeaux. 

“ Now, Monsieur Drubarde, we are alone and at our ease. You 
have now all the facts of Leonie Lemarque’s death well within your 
knowledge; and now give me your opinion.” 

“ A very difiicult case in which to come to a decided opinion,” 
answered Drubarde. “ At present my conclusions and yours are 
antagonistic. My niece wrote out a careful translation of your 
newspaper report. 1 have her translation in my pocket-book. You 
can look it over it you like to see that it is faithfully done. 1 have 
read it three or four times, with keenest attention, and 1 can so 
far see nothing out of the common in Leonie Lemarque’s fate. A. 
pretty girl traveling alone, a common ruffian, a common murder. ” 


128 wyllard’s weird, | 

4 

“And you see no link between this crime and that former! 
murder?*’ •' 

“ ISIot a thread — not a hair. A deed done ten years ago— un- 
punished, the murderer undiscovered.” 

“ Do you forget that Leonie went to London with credentials to ^ 
a friend of this very murderer? Perhaps a friend so devoted, so , 
bound to the guilty man, that he might not recoil from a new mur- ^ 
der to get rid of the one witness of his friend’s crime.” 

“ To imagine that is to imagin-e an impossible friendship. Men 
do not risk their necks nowadays, whatever they may have done in ' 
the time of Damon and Pythias.” \ 

“ Then you see nothing extraordinary or mysterious in the violent 
death of this girl, within twenty-four hours of her leaving Paris, 
carrying with her. documents which may in some manner have be- 
trayed the secret of the double murder? Perhaps a letter from the 
lover to his mistress, a letter written by a man maddened by ieal- ■ 
ousy, threatening to do the deed which was afterward done. You 
see no sufficient ground for connecting one crime with another, for 
seeking the secret of the second crime in the history of the first?” 

“ Honestly, I do not,” replied Monsieur Drubarde, who had 
fastened his napkin under his chin, had nibbled a radish or two, ■ 
^and destroyed the symmetry of a dish of prawns, by way of prepara- 
tion for the fricandeau. “ 1 only wish 1 could see my way to such 
an opinion. It would make as pretty a case as ever I was concerned ^ 
in, However, there is no knowing what new discoveries we may 
make, if we go to work patiently. My present view of the case is 
that Leonie Lemarque, being young, silly, and inexperienced, and - 
not knowing a word of English, altogether a wrong person to 
make such a journey alone, got into bad hands at the very begin- ; 
ning. I believe that, instead of meeting this person who was to 
have befriended her, and who must have been a man of standing ! 
and respectability, or the old grandmother would not have sent her 
to him, she fell into the hands of a scoundrel and was lured in to . 
your train for Cornwall.” 

“ You must remember that Paddington Station is some miles • 
from Charing Cross,” said Heathcote; “ the girl could not be ■ 
smuggled from one train to the other unaw\‘ires. She must have ' 
traversed half London on foot, or in a conveyance of some kind.” 

“ Possibly. But, as likely as not, she was in the companionship ^ 
of the wrong man. Consider her ignorance, her helplessness. 
What an easy prey for a villain!” 

Edward Heathcote was unconvinced. ; 

“ I can not imagine a crime so motiveless as that which you sug- ‘ 
gest,” he said, thoughtfully. ^ 

He began to lose faith in the old sleuth-hound. He began to \ 
think that Andre Drubarde was worn out; that scent, and pace, and ^ 
tongue were things of tiie past. He began to think that the work ^ 
of finding the link between the two crimes must be done by himself j 
rather than by Drubarde. .j 

“ What became of the girl’s bag?” asked Drubarde, after he had 
eaten a liberal portion of veal and spinach. “ There is no mention i 
of a bag in your newspaper.” ^ i 


: ' wyllard’s weird. 129 

"‘ There was no bap: found. If there had been the victim n^u^ht 
^ave been identified earlier.^' 

And the sealed packet?” 

“ There was no packet. T. here was nothing; but a little basket 
* -containing a few cherries and a biscuit bag. There was no clew to 
identity. The murderer had done his work well.” 

“ The best thing you can do is to put Mr. Distin in possession of 
the details you heard from Mademoiselle Beauville. He can make 
inquiries at the Charing Cross Station, where it is just possible the 
girl may be remembered by some of the porters. A girl traveling 
alone, and meeting a gentleman on the platform. The meeting may 
have been observed, even there, where crowds meet and part every 
hour. Railway officials are observant and keen-witted. It is 
within the limits of the possible that this poor girl may not have 
, passed altogether unremarked.” 

“ 1 will write to Distin this afternoon,” said Ileathcole. “ And 
theie is another thing 1 can do. If your theory is correct, Leonie 
Lemarque missed the person who was to have met her at the station, 
i and fell into bad hands. If that is so the fact ought to be arrived 

! at easily by an appeal to the person whom she should have met.” 

!. He took out bis pencil and pocket-book, and wrote the rough 
I draft of an advertisement:— 

‘‘ The person who was to have met Leonie Lemarque at Charing 
Cross'Station on the morning of July 5tli last, is earnestly requested 
to corhmunicate immediately with Messrs. Distin & Son, Furnival’s 
Inn.” 

He read a free translation of this advertisement to Monsieur 
I Drubarde. 

; “ fes, that is a wise test,” said the police-officer. ”1 see you 

! have the Xxmq flair. If the man is innocent he will answer that ad- 

I vertisement— always supposing that it come to his knowledge.” 

i ” 1 will repeat it so often in the ‘ Times,’ that it will not he easy 
I for the appeal to escape his knowledge,” answered Heathcote. 

I “ Then if there is no sign we shall say guilty,” said Drubarde. 

” And in that case we have to find the villain.” 

“Y'ou may add a postscript to your letter to Monsieur Distin, 
advising him to inquire at the cloak-room of Charing Cross Station 
for an unclaimed hand-bag left there on July the 5th. Something 
must have been done with that hand-bag, and, in our civilized .con- 
dition it is not easy to get rid of even a hand-bag.” 

After having made tjiis suggestion M. Diubarde devoted himself 
entirely to the pleasures of the table. Mr. Heathcote ate very little, 
and was too troubled in mind to know wdiat to eat. He saw hincself 
. no nearer a solution of the problem which he had pledged himself 
to solve. Yet this he felt, th^t the sky was growing clearer round 
Bothwell Grahame. The secret ot the girl’s death seemed to lie 
between the man whom she was to have met at Charing Cross and 
the phenomenal villain of Drubarde ’s imagination, who had lured 
her into the Cornish train with darkest intent. 

.He left Andre Drubarde directly after luncheon, and walked 
back to the Hotel de Bade, where he devoted the afternoon to his 
correspondence. He wTote at fullest length to George Distin, in- 
,5 


130 


avyllaed's weird. 

closing the advertisement in the “ Times/' with a check, and a/s^ 
order for its daily appearance until further notice. Me wrote a 
cheery letter to Hilda, telling her to be hopeful; and he wrote to^ 
Mrs. Wyllard, telling her that the result of his investigations up to 
the present hour had gone far to dispel his suspicion of her cousin's- 
suilt. 

“ 1 am still groping in the dark,” he concluded, “ and am very 
far from having achieved any tangible result, but 1 am working 
with all my mind and all my strength, and 1 hope that Providence 
will not compel me to abandon my task until 1 have fathomed the 
mystery of Leonie Lemarque’s death.” 

He wrote thus, unconsciously, forgetting that Dora Wyllard did 
not know even the name of the victim. The discovery of the girl’s 
identity, made three days ago, at Dinan, seemed to him an old his- 
tory, so exclusively had his mind dwelt upon this one subject 
during the reveries of that period. The fact that the name must 
be a new thing to Dora never struck him. 

He dined alone in his private sitting-room, he who at any other 
time would have enjoyed the glitter and life of the Boulevard in all 
its evening brilliancy. He wanted ta be free from all sound and 
movement, from the sight of strange faces, so that his mind should 
work undisturbed upon the problem he had set himself to solve. 

And now over his solitary cutlet, with his pocket-book open be- 
fore him, he marshaled his facts, and reflected upon each detail of 
the story. 

The murderer of Marie Prevol and Gustave Maucroijc had es- 
caped, and in all probability was still living. He appeared to have 
been rich, independent of all ties, a Bohemian in his habits, a man 
who could live in any country. Hardly possible that such a man 
would remain within a narrow radius of the scene of his crime — not 
to be looked for assuredly in Paris, or even in France. Far more 
likely that he had crossed the Atlantic, and sunk his identity in 
that wider, freer society of the United States, wheie money and 
cleverness outweigh a man’s antecedents, wdiere no one asks what a 
man has been, only what he is. or is worth in the present. Or it 
might be that spch a man as this Georges, a night-bird, a man of 
fervid temperament, a lover of pleasure rather than work, -unambi- 
tious, a voluptuary, would turn his face to Southern America, and 
dream away the after stages of an exhausted life in some romantic 
city upon the sea-board of the Pacific. Not in Europe— or not in 
the accessible quarters of Europe should he be sought for. 

But in the meantime, here, in this city of Paris, there was some- 
thing to be done. Vain to look for the man himself, perhaps; but 
those who had known the man, his chosen friends, the companions 
of his midnight orgies, might still be found. From them the man’s 
antecedents might be learned; and possibly some glimmer of light 
could be obtained as to his adventures and whereabouts after the 
murder. 

Edward Hcaihcote reviewed his Parisian acquaintance in search 
of such men as might be likely to have known this M. Georges. It 
was almost impossible for a man, spending his money lavishly, tlie 
favored admirer of a beautiful actress, not to be in some measure a 


WYtLABD’S WEIRD. 


131 


inan of maTk, and very widely known in the faster section of Pa- 
risian society. 

Mr. Heatbcote knew his Paris well, and loved it well. After that 
bitter loss, which had changed the current of his life, he had found 
bard work in his office his first best cure, and next best to hard, men- 
tal labor he had found relief of mind in the society of the artistic and 
keen-witted idlers of the Boulevard and the Bohemian club. He 
had found a week in Paris— a week of Boulevard idleness and 
Boulevard society— the best remedy for the dullness and the depres- 
sion that comes from an unsatisfied heart and an overworked brain; 
and in these occasional plunges into Parisian society he had made a 
wider acquaintance with the artistic classes than it is often granted 
to a provincial Englishman to make. 

He ran over the names of the men he knew best in Paris, trying 
to hit upon the likeliest person to suit his purpose. It must be. a 
man who had been well to the fore ten years ago, when Marie Prevol 
was a famous beauty, and her lover was spending his nights and 
his fortune on the Boulevard. It should not be difficult, he thought, 
to hit upon such a man. 

“ Volney Dugarge, Bize, Pontruche, Trottier. Yes, Trotlier. 
That is the man; a thorough-going Bohemian, a haunter of supper- 
tables and gambling dens, a hanger-on of lorettes, steeped to the 
tips of his nails in the atmosphere of ihQ demi monde y'2i friend of 
Gautier, and Nerval, and Rochefort, an habitue of the Boulevard 
theaters; poor, keen-witted, a member of the band of paragraph ists, 
the men who invent scandals, political, social, literary, theatrical, 
according to the prevailing demand, who write smart paragraphs 
lor the most audacious of the newspapers, puffs for enterprising 
tradesmen.” 

Trottier, thus humble in his pursuits, a man utterly without 
pride, or, as his enemies said, without self respect, was one of the 
most agreeable men in Paris. He had been a Boulevardier for the 
last thirty years, had seen the Boulevard extend its glittering 
length into regions which he remembered as a dreary wilderness of 
darkness and poverty. He remembered the time when the Palais 
Royal was the focus of Parisian gayety, the very temple of fashion 
and taste. 

“ If this man Georges had any status in Bohemian society, Sigis- 
mond Trottier must have known him,” thought Heatbcote. 

The next thing was to find Trottier. He was a man who only 
began to live after dinner. He might be looked for on the Boulevard 
between nine o’clock and midnight. He might be found at a club 
much favored by actors and journalists, a club which had taken for 
itself a name from the history of the mediaeval drama and rejoiced in 
the title of “ Les Enfants Sans Souci,” more briefly known as the 
“ Sans Souci.’’ The “ Sans Soiici ” had its nest on an entresol in 
the Rue Vivienne, six low-ceiled rooms opening cue out of another, 
three of them furnished with divans in true Oriental style. These 
were the smoking-rooms. Then came a fourth and much more 
cpacious apartment provided with numerous small tables, waiting 
materials., and the newspapers. Tapestried on the right and 

left of the fire-place in this reading-room opened into the sanctuary 
f?f the club, two medium-sized rooms, furnished with green cloth. 


132 


ayyllaed’s weird. 


tables for baccarat, thickly curtained, thickly carpeted, lighted only 
from the court-yard ot the house, which was like a dry well. Ed- 
ward Heathcote strolled along the Boulevard, looking tor his ^friend 
as he went. It was nearly ten o’clock— a delicious night, balmy, 
starlit, summer-like— a night upon which Sigismond Trottier might 
naturally have been found sealed amidst the idlers grouped on the 
asphalt in front of a popular cafe. But in the groups which Heath- 
cote passed between the H6tel de Bade and the corner of the Place de 
la Bourse there was no sign of Trottier's keen, ferret face and long 
giay^hair. So the Englishman continued his walk to the Rue 
Vivienne, and entered the lamp-lit hall which led to the mysteries 
of the Sans Souci. ” 

He had been taken there more than once by Trottier, and had been 
amused and interested by the people he met. 

“ Can you tell me if Monsieur Trottier is here this evening?’' he 
asked of the porter. 

“ Yes, monsieur. He came half an hour ago. Monsieur generally 
comes here at the same hour every evening to write his article for 
lhe‘Taon.’“ 

The rooms were almost empty. Neither journalists nor actors 
mustered strong before midnight. In a comfortable corner of the 
writing-room, at a little table brilliantly lighted by a green-shaded 
lamp,’ Edward Heathcote found the man he came to seek. 

He was at least sixty 5 ^eais ot age, tall, spare to attenuation, with 
Jong, narrow face ot almost livid pallor, and long gray hair, falling 
over a greasy olive-green velvet collar, choice ornament of a thread- 
bare and faded olive-green frock-coat. His jaw -was narrow and 
projecting, his lips thin and pinched, his nose long and sharp, 
his eyebrows gray and shaggy. The only feature that gave lif^ 
or color to the face was the restless and brilliant black eye — small, 
keen, observant— the eye of a creature always on the watch. Ah ! how 
many of the darkest mysteries of Paris had that keen glance dis- 
covered; how many a loathsome depth had that ruthless gaze ex- 
plored, how many a social ulcer, how many a domestic disease, how 
many a wound of heart and honor, how many an atrophy of purse 
had that eye pierced and scrutinized, while all the rest of the w^orld 
was still blind to the coming ruin, the inevitable disgrace! Sigis- 
mond Trottier was a student of society. It was his boast that he 
knew this Paiis of the Republic as well as Saint Simon knew the 
Paris of the great Louis; knew it in all its strength, and in all its 
weakness; knew it to the core ot its rotten heart. 

Needless to ^ay that such a man was invaluable as a paragraphist. 
He had the same keen scent for a scandal that the well -trained de- 
tective has for a crime. A whisper, a shrug, was enough to put him 
on the right track. He was a genius at that moaern style ot hint 
and innuendo which just stops short of libel. He haa killed mor©' 
repuations than any man in Pnris, and he had never been to prison. 
His safety lay in tlio keenness of his perception, which never al- 
lowed him to fall into such mistakes as have ruined other society- 
gossips. . Whatever Sigismond Trottier wrote was true. He had an 
extraordinary power ot winnowing the chaff from the corn in the 
floating scandals of the Boulevard. He knew what to accept and 
'what to reject. His judgment was infallible. When Parisian 


WYLLARD'S WEIRD. 


13 ^ 


society saw the hint of an elopement, the suggestion of a marital 
wrong signed by Sigismond’s hieroglyphic — an Egyptian beetle — the 
thing was received as a fact. The pen of the unerring recorder had 
proclaimed a truth. Happily, he was not a cur, though a profes- 
sional assailant of man’s honor and woman’s reputation. He had 
given good proof of his courage on several occasions, had stood up 
before famous swordsmen, had faced marksmen of repute. That 
deep dint in his lean and livid cheek was the mark of a bullet from 
the Duke of Midlothian’s pistol— that tamous viwur who expired 
suddenly amidst the fading flowers and flaring tapers of a Boulevard 
supper-room — the vpry spirit of reckless gayety and wildest dissi- 
pation extinguished in a breath. That long slanting scar upon the 
left jaw, a shade more livid than the normal lividity of the comr 
plexion, was the result of a little sword-play between the Boulevard, 
chronicler and the Marquis du Bois-Cliaufonds, the reminiscence of 
a duel which set all Paris talking twenty years ago, when the 
Walewska was in the zenith of her charms. From scalp to sole the 
paragraphist could have shown the scars of past battles. He had 
never been known to refuse a challenge. 

The paragraphist was so absorbed in his task when Heathcote ap- 
proached hts table as to be quite unconscious of any one’s presence. 
Heathcote seated himself upon the Other side of the table, and took 
up a newspaper, to wait till the journalist ca.me to the end of a 
sheet. 

He had nol long to wait. Before he had read more than half a 
dozen paragraphs in the “ Taon,” each signed with the familiar 
beetle, Sigistnond paused to blot a page, looked up, and recognized 
his English acquaintance. 

“ Good-evening,” he said. Then with a vast effort he burst into 
English, and exclaimed, “ ’Owderyoudo,” all as one word, having 
achieved which feat he laughed long an'd loud, surprised at his own 
talent for foreign tongues' “ We begin to talk your language of 
horses, we others,” he said, Iriumphantly. ‘‘We have taken all 
your words for the sport, and now we begin lo take your greetings 
and salutations, your shake-hand, your ’owderyoudo. And what 
brings you to Paris, Monsieur Ettcott, at the dead season?” 

‘‘ 1 should rather ask what you, chosen chronicler of fashionable 
society, can find to record in tlEie dead season?” 

“ My dear friend, the worst scandals are those that happen in the 
dead season, when Paris is a desert, and a man thinks he can 
murder his neighbor or run away with his neighbor’s wife with 
equal impunity. Ah, my friend, for the development of intrigue^ 
for the ripening of social m3^sterie8, the working out of domestic 
tragedies, there can be no better time than this dull, blank interval 
of the year, when there is no one in Paris. What stolen meetings, 
what little suppers in closely-sealed cabinets, when madame is at the 
sea-side and monsieur is shooting wild boar in Auvergne. Heaven 
only forbid that monsieur and madame should happen to take tlieir 
supper in adjacent cabinets, and that monsieur should recognize the 
voice of madame on the other side of the lath and plaster. Yes, 
there is no richer harvest-time for the chronicler than the season 
when there is not a mortal in Paris.” 


as4 


wyllard’s weird. 


Cynic/’ exclaimed Heathcote. “And so you live still by expos 
ing the taults and tollies ot your tellosv creatures.” 

“ I try to relorm them by proviu" to them that sooner or later all 
social secrets are known. I am about the only preacher whose 
sermons scare them nowadays.” 

“ Then you consider your trade a strictly honorable one, no 
doubt?” 

“In French, no doubt means perhaps,” replied Trottier, f)ide 
Michelet. No, I will say nothing tor my calling, except that a man 
must live. You may not see the necessity ot my^ living, but the 
existence of the lowest of us has its value to the man himself. The 
world might get on very well without me, but !• can’t get on with- 
out the world.” 

“ A man of your talent might have done well in any other line — ” 

“ Pardon; mine is not a talent. It is a specialty. 1 should have 
succeeded in no other line. If 1 had been jich and high placed, 
like St. Simon, 1 should have kept my impressions to myself while 
1 lived, and should have left a big book behind me when 1 died. 
But 1 am poor and a nobody, so 1 have had to live upon my im- 
pressions.” 

“You put the case neatly,” said Heathcote, “ and you are right; 
we are most of us the thing which circumstances make us. The 
man who will not allow himself to be molded by circumstances, who 
will strike out into the empyrean of ideal good, is one man in a 
thousand.” 

“ I should not care to aspire to such eccentricity,” said Trottier. 

“ You have not finished your evening’s work, I suppose?” 

“ No, 1 am in for another hour.” 

“ Good,” said Heathcote. “ then at midnight you will be free. 
Will you sup with me at the Cafe de Paris when your work is done? 
1 believe it is in your power 4o do me a material service, merely by 
calling upon your memories of the past. Will you meet me at the 
Cafe de Paris at twelve?” 

“ W’iJh pleasure, and if my poor memories of men and events can 
help you, the record is at your service.” 

“ A thousand thanks. 1 will go and order supper, and stroll on 
the Boulevard till it is ready. Au remir T' 

“Until midnight.” 

Sigismond Trottier was a man who kept his appointments. He 
was not neat in his person, or punctual in his payments. He never 
went to church, and he did not always wash. But it he promised 
a page of copy to a newspaper, the page .was delivered in due time. 
If he oflered to frank a friend to the Ihealer, in his quality as critic, 
he was waiting in the vestibule at the appointed hour, ready to keep 
his word. It he accepted an invitation to supper, he never kept his 
host waiting. An invitation to dinner he always declined. 

“ A dinner-party is an anti-climax,” he protested. “ A man gets 
-drunk too soon, and spoils his evening.” 

At midnight, M. Trottier’s evening began, and he was ready tor 
the feast. 

Mr. Heathcote received him in one of the coziest little rooms in 
the cafe. The Englishman’s first act on entering had been to light 


wyllard’s weird. 135 

all wax candles on the mantel-piece which the waiters had left 
iinliglited. This established him at once as a man who knew his 
Paris, and his choice of wines strengthening his position, everything 
was ready when Trottier’s shabby olive-green coat came meekly into 
the radiance of the wax-candles. Trottier was known at the Cafe- 
de Paris, and his shabby coat commanded the reverence of the 
■waiters. Was he not a man who as it were carried reputations in 
his pocket, who could make a head waiter famous by a stroke of his 
pen? 

The supper was delicate, recherche, Parisian; the wine was Johan 
nisberger of princely quality, and a magnum of Heidsieck appeared 
with the last course. The two men talked of general topics during 
supper. It was only when the waiters had withdrawn, and when 
Sigismond Trottier had thrown himself back in his chair and 
lighted his cigarette, that Mr. Heathcote approached the business 
of the evening. It was half -past one o’clock, and the roll of wheels 
upon the asphalt below the open window had been gradually grow- 
ing rarer. There was no longer the roar of the boulevard to disturb 
the speakers. 

“ If 1 can be of the slightest use to you — as an embodied chronicle 
of Paris — command me,” said Trottier. “ Here 1 am at your service 
— an open book. You have only to turn my leaves.” 

” Do you remenxber a double murder — the murder of an actress 
and her lover— which happened ten years ago, in the forest of St. 
Germain?” 

“ Do 1 remember? Yes, as if the thing had happened last week; 
and for a good reason. The man who was suspected— the lover, or 
as some thought^ the husband of the actress— was my familiar 
friend.” 

“Great heaven!” exclaimed Heathcote, almost starting from his- 
chair. “ Then ray instinct was right. U told me that 1 should get 
on tbe track of that man— it told me that you must have known, 
him.” 

“ The man was well known to me and to a chosen few. but only 
a lew,” replied Trottier. “ He was a man of eccentric habits— a 
man of talent and large intellect, who could afford to live his own 
life, and lived it. AYhat he did with himself in the day none Of us 
knew; whether he slept away half his daylight life, or shut himself 
in his den and smoked, and dreamed, and read. The latter hj^polhe^ 
sis seemed likely enough, for he was a man who had read widely. 
He was a delightful companion — brilliant, genial, lavish to his 
friends—a splendid host. 1 have supped with him and Marie Pre- 
vol many a night in this house— sometimes a cozy trio, sometimes 
with that small choice circle with which he occasionally surrounded 
himself.” 

“ Then 1 take it that he was known in general society, either the 
uppermost or the middle circles.” 

“Not the least in the world. He was a man who scorned’ so- 
ciety, hated ceremonies and conventionalities. 1 never saw him in 
a dress suit. 1 doubt if he possessed one. When lie went to a thea- 
ter it was to sit in a shadowy corner, where he could see without 
being seen. He detested crowds. He had nothing to gain from the 


136 WYLLAKD's WfllRD. 

great world, and could afford to outrage all its rules and regula- 
tions.” 

” Was he a thoroughbred Parisian?” 

” Far from it. He was an American— a French Canadian, 1 be- 
lieve, but had lived so long in Paris as to be almost as Parisian as a 
citizen born and bred.” 

” Had he made his money or inherited it?” 

” Inherited it, without doubt, pis habits were those of the 
spender, not the worker. He was one of the lilies of the field, who 
toil not, neither do they spin. 1 take it thafhis father had been 
one of those daring speculators who in America become millionaires 
: in a 7ear or two. As for the man hinaself, he had no more idea of 
business or finance than one of those dressed-up dolls of the Quar- 
tier Breda. He took not the faintest interest in the transactions of 
the Bourse, and in that point alone revealed himself as no true Par- 
isian.” 

” Bo you believe that he committed the murder?” asked Heath- 
cote. 

Sigismond Trottier shrugged his shoulders, and shook back his 
long gray hair, as he slowly puffed his seventeenth cigarette. 

‘‘ Who knows?” he said. ” 1 liked the man so well that I should 
hesitate at saying 1 believe in his guilt. And yet the fact of his dis- 
appearance from the hour of the murder is almost conclusive evi- 
dence. And 1 know that he was savagely jealous of Maucroix.” 

” You judged him a man of strong passions, a man capable of a 
great crimef^ 

‘‘ Yes; he was a man of intense feeling — strong for good or evil. 
A volcano glowed under that calm outward aspect — that easy-going 
devil-may-care manner of his. 1 was very sorry fcr him. It Marie 
had been but true—” 

“You believe that she was his wife?” 

“ 1 do. His manner to her was in all respects the manner of one 
who esteemed as well as loved her. He introduced her to his friends 
as his wife. He loved her too well to have refused her that title.” 

“ But for a man who scorned conventionalities, what reason could 
there have been for concealment? Why should he not have intro- 
duced his actress wife to society? Why should he not have estab- 
lished a home?” 

“ The first question is easily answered. As he loathed society for 
himself, he would hardly court it for his wife. The second can 
only be answered by the fact that the man was an ecceutric. He 
preferred the freedom of an actress’s lodging to the restrictions of a 
rich man’s house. His happiest days were spent wandering south- 
ward with the swallows; yet so strange was the roan’s temper that 
he never stayed more than a fortnight or three weeks away from 
Paris. The city seemed to draw hiin back like a magnet.” 

“Yet he had no business here?” 

“ "None that 1 ever discovered. He must have loved the city for 
its own sake. He was here all through the siege and the Commune. 

1 have heard him say that the happiest days of his life were those 
on which the roar of the Prussian guns made his music, and when 
Marie and he used to crouch and shiver over a handful of charcoal 
and eat a supper of dry bread and F^rench plums.” 


wyllakd’s weikd. 


13T 


“ He must have had some terre of his own, 1 conclude.” 

“ He must have had his den somewhere in Paris, but none. of us 
knew where it was. Tne only address he ever gave was that of 
Marie Prevol, Madame Georges, in the Rue Lafitte. Hemet 
his friends on the Boulevard when the theaters were over. He was 
a*man who enjoyed life to the full — after his own fashion. He was 
the ver}^ life of his little circle— a daring wit, a bold politician, a 
trenchant critic. Paris is the city of brilliant talkers, yet 1 have 
kriown few who surpassed Georges as a conversationalist. 1 can, 
see him now, with his long fair hair falling over his flashing eyes, 
his sarcastic lip, and the proud carriage of that leonine head. Not 
a common man by an}’^ means, and with a laugh that was like music 
— a man for a woman to adore— and yet Marie wavered, in her fldel- 
ity directly an aristocratic dandy made love to her.” 

” You have no idea what became of Georges after the murder?” 

“ If I had, 1 would not tell you. No, 1 have not the faintest 
inkling. He vanished as a bubble that bursts upon the surface of a 
stream. As a mere guess, I should say that he went back to the 
country of his birth— that if he is still living, he is to be found in 
America under another name.” 

” He was a rich man, you say. It is easier for a man to betake 
himself from one country to another than to transfer his fortune. 
What became of this man's French investments?” 

“ He may never l;ave had any such investments. His fortune may" 
have been invested solely in America. He was a man who declared 
that he valued liberty above all other blessings — he would scarcely 
have fettered himself by investing any portion of his wealth in a 
country where he was leading a life ot pleasure, living as a pure 
Bohemian. His utter indifference to all rumors about tl>e Bourse 
would show that he had no French investments. His wealth, I take 
it, came from some secure source on the other side of the Atlantic.” 

” Did you ever hear him talk of an English friend, or a friend 
who resided in England?” 

“No.” 

“ And yet he must have had some such friend,” said Heathcote. 

He related the story of Leonie Lemarque’s death, and the induce* 
ment that had taken lier to England, where she was to have met a 
friend of her aunt's long-vanished lover. Sigismond Trottier list- 
ened with keenest interest. All social mysteries, whether criminal 
or not, had a charm for him. 

“ It is a vefy strange case,” he said, “ and 1 don't wonder that 
you are following it up earnestly. No, I never heard Georges men- 
tion any English friend. It was a bold stroke for the grandmother 
to send the girl to a man who was a friend of the murderer of her 
daughter. A drowning man will catch at. a straw, says your prov- 
erb; and this poor woman — penniless and friendless on her death-bed 
— m^y have caught at the name of the only rich man upon whom 
she could advance the faintest claim. And what was the nature of 
that claim? A packet ot Georges' love letters. Compromising love- 
letters, perhaps, to be offered' to Geoiges’ friend as the price of pro- 
tection and aid for the orphan girl. A very strange story. And no- 
one knows what became of those letters?” 


138 


WYLLARD'S AVEIRD. 


“No one, as yet. Ko letters wer% found upon the girl. Even 
the hand-bag she carried with her had disappeared.” 

” A strange story. 1 wish i could help you to read the riddle. 
Your interest in it 1 imagine to be something beyond the mere 
artistic interest in a curious case.” 

“ Yes; 1 am concerned in arriving at the truth, for the sake pf 
one whom 1 honor and revere. 1 shall be deeply grateful if you 
oanhelpme.” 

“Then 1 will help you,” answered the paragraphist,. quietly ; and 
Edward Heathcote felt that in this anyiteur detective he had a 
stronger ally than in the old police-officer of the left bank. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

BOTHWELL BEGINS TO SEE HIS WAY. 

Dreaky days followed for Bothwell Grahame after that final in- 
terview with Lady Valeria. He had brokeh his bonds, he had es- 
caped from the Circe whose fatal spells had held him caotive so 
long. He. WHS his own man again, he could stand up before his 
fellow-men and fear no reproach— nay, he could even dare to meet 
that kind old man whose friendship had never been withheld from 
him. ' He could look General Harborough in the face and clasp his 
hand without feeling himself a craven and a traitor, and that is a 
thing wluch he had not been able to do tor the last three years. 

He'w^asrelieved, rejoiced at the breaking ot that old tie, and yet 
there was a touch of pain in such a parting. There came a bitter 
pang of reinorse now and again to disturb his sense ot newly- recov- 
ered peace.’ Such severances can never happen without pain. A 
man can but remember that such things were, and were most dear. 
To be utterly indifierent to the agony of a woman he has once loved 
a man must have a heart of stone. Bothwell was not stony-heart- 
ed. He knew that Valeria Harborough was not a good woman — 
that she had been shamefully false to the best of husbands — that she 
had abandoned herself recklessly, madly, to the promptings of a 
fatal passion. But he had loved her once, and his heart bled for 
her now in her misery and abandonment. He was haunted by the 
vision ot her face as she had risen up before him, white as the very 
dead, her eyes flashing, her lips quivering, her voice subdued by 
passion to a serpent-like hiss, as she told him — 

“ You are in love with another woman!” 

Y*es, that was what it all came to. That was the suih-total of his 
scruples, his remorse of conscience; or at least that is what it must 
needs seem in the sight of the woman he abandoned. She would 
give him no credit for many a remorseful pang, many a sting ot 
conscience in the past; yes, even in the noontide of passion, when he 
deemed that for him Fate held not the possibility of another love. 
In her sight he was a perjurer and a hypocrite. It was hard so to 
appear to the woman who had worshiped him; hard to know that 
there was a heart breaking for him yonder in the Italian villa on the 
hill above the sea. 

“Why should I grieve about her?” he asked himself, angrily. 


wyllard’s weird. - 139 ^ 

1 must be a coxcomb to fancy that she is making herself unhappy 
lor my sake. She was angry with me the other day. It was rage, 
not wounded love, that flashed from those brilliant eyes of hers* 
the rage of slighted beauty. She is far more concerned for her 
losses on the turf than at the loss of me. It my Dido mounts the- 
funeral pyre it will be because she has made a bad book, and not 
for my sake.” 

But argue with himself as he might-, Bothwell could not forget the 
agony in the face that had once been his delight, the despair in the 
voice which had bidden him farewell, the tremulous hand which 
had snatched the love-token to fling it away in deepest scorn. 

Perhaps Bothwell would have more easily forgotten these things 
if be could have had the comfort of Hilda's society at this period ot 
his life. But Hilda and the twins and Fraulcin Meyerstein had ajl 
gone ofl to Dawlish for sea-bathing, and Mrs. Wyllard warmed her 
cousin that he must not attempt to follow them. 

“You are on your probation, my poor Bothwell, she said, and 
you must be very careful how you abt. If you were to go to Daw- 
lish, you would only distress Hilda, who has promised not to see 
you till her brother returns.” 

“ 1 am not going there. 1 would not distress her for worlds. ' 1. 
am to wait patiently till Heathcote has made up his mind that 1 am 
not in the habit of throwing girls over viaducts; and then 1 may go to 
my darling, and claim her promise. In the meantime, 1 can at least 
write to her.” 

And he did write within a few hours of his flnal interview with 
Lady Valeria: — 

“ My Dearest, — 1 am my own man again. 1 am free, or as free 
as a man can be who is your most abiect slave. 1 am told that 1 
am not to be allowed to see you till i stand acquitted of the crime 
which Bodmin has judged me quite capable of committing. I 
think, little as you know of me, you know enough to be very sure 
that I am innocent upon that count. 

“ But there was another count upon which 1 confess myself 
guilty, Hilda, and it was that old sin which made me hang back 
when 1 longed to tell you my love. 1 have been guilty of a foolish 
attachment to a married woman— an attachment which lasted with 
varying fervor for over a year, but which had quite worn itself out 
before 1 left India. The flame bad burned fiercely enough fora 
little while, and then came total extinction. Only it is not always 
easy for a man to shake off old fetters; and it was not till your pure 
and noble love gave me courage that 1 dared to stand up boldly and 
say— ‘ That old false love is dead; let us bury it decently.* And now 
the old love is burie^l, Hilda, and 1 am all your own. No one is 
any the worse for that old sentimental foWy. Such flirtations are 
going on in India every day. Some end in guilt and misery, no 
doubt; but there are more that finish as mine has finished, like the 
blowing out of a candle. 

“ Can you forgive me, dear one, for having once cared for an- 
other? Bemember, it was before 1 knew you. Henceforward I 
am yours, and yours only. I claim your dear promise. 1 ask you 
to engage yourself to a man whom Bodmin looks upon askance as 


140 


wyllakd's weiud. 


a possible murderer. No, love, 1 will not exact so much. 1 will 
only tell you that I am all your own, and that 1 adore you. We 
will not talk about engagements till your brother comes back from 
Paris, convinced of my innocence as to that one particular charge, 
sand until Bodmin has begun to forget that it ever suspected me. 

“ Your adoring 

“ Bothwell.” 

Having written this letter, Bothwell had nothing to do but to ride 
about the hills, thinking of his sweetheart, till he received her an- 
swer. 

She wrote with unstinted tenderness, and recoiled in nowise from 
the fulfillment of her promise. 

“ I hold myself engaged to you henceforward, dear Bothwell,'* 
she wrote, “ through good or evil fortune, good or evil report. But 
as 1 have promised my brother not to see you while he is away, it 
might be well that we did not write to each other again until he 
has returned. 1 think you know that 1 am steadfast, and that you 
can trust me.** 

Yes, he was very sure of her steadfastness. Was she notone 
woman in a thousand to have pledged herself to him just when any 
ordinary woman would have shunned him— would have recoiled 
from him as from some savage monster. She had been calm, and 
steadfast, and unfeaiing, a woman who could dare to judge for her- 
self. 

And now Bothwell Grahame felt that he had crossed iht^ threshold 
of a new life. He was no longer a solitary waif, with no one to 
think of but himself. He had not only his own future to work out 
with patience and courage. He had to think of the young wife, 
whom it might be his to claim before he was much older. He could 
no longer afiord to be vague and wavering. The problem of a gen- 
tlemanlike maintenance must be worked out by him, somehow, and 
without loss of time. 

He walked across the Cornish hills iti those balmy afternoons of 
September, full of thought and full of care; happy, yes, ineffably 
happy, in the knowledge of Hilda’s love; but care went along with 
happiness. He had to provide for his beloved. Long and thought- 
ful self-examination brought him to one positive conclusion about 
himself Whatever he was to do in the future, if he were to do it 
well, must be, in somewise, the thing that he had done in the past. 
He was a soldier to the marrow of his bones, and it was in military 
work or military studies that he must find his future living. 

This was the plan which he worked out for himself during those 
solitary rambles on the moor, sometimes with gun and dogs, some- 
times with .no companion save his own thoughts. He would fall 
back upon the studious habits of his earlier years, work at the sci- 
ence of soldiery as he had worked then. He would take a house 
in one of the villages on the wild coast of North Cornwall— at Tre- 
venna perhaps, in King Arthur’s country, some roomy old house 
with a good garden, and he would take pupils to cram lor the mil- 
itary examinations. He knew that he could get on with young men. 
He liad always been popular with the subalterns of his regiment. 


1 




\ 

1 

\ 




wyllakd’s weird. 


141 


He would work honestly, conscientiously, devotedly as ever coach, 
or crammer worked since the art of coaching and cramming was 
first invented. It would be a jog-trot, humble kind ot life, a life 
which could never lead to distinction, far from a brilliant future to 
offer to such a girl as Hilda Heathcote. et he told himself that it 
was such a life as would not be altogether distasteful to her. It 
was a life in which husband and wife need be rarely parted, in 
which all their amusements and relaxations could be shared. They 
could hunt, and shoot, and ride, and boat together on that wild 
coast. The conventionalities would cost them very little. Fine 
clothes, fine living would not be required of them; and in their rus- 
tic seclusion they would escape the ghastly struggle to maintain 
showy appearances; they could afford themselves all the comforts 
of a homely, unpretentious menage. 

Bothwell felt that it was in him to do good and honest work in 
such a career as this; surely better than sheep- breeding or gold- dig- 
ging in some savage quarter of the earth, where the intellectual man 
must gradually sink into the brute. He pictured to himself the 
tranquil happiness of such a life The long morning of con- 
scientious work, followed by the afternoon ride or ramble. The 
summer holiday after a successful term; the adventurous excursion 
among Scottish lakes, or in some foreign land; the cherished home, 
gradually developed and improved from its primitive homeliness 
into a thing of beauty. The garden in which wife and husband and 
pupils worked together toward the attainment of a loft}" ideal. The 
union of a household which should be as one'fami]3^ / 

Cheered by such visions BothWell took up his old technical books 
with an almost rabid hunger for study. He sent to London for the 
newest treatises on gunnery. He flung himself with heart and 
mind into the one line ot study which had always interested him; 
Hilda had told him not to write to her, but he could not deny him- 
self the delight of unfoldiDg bis newly-formed plan, which he ex- 
' plained. to her upon five sheets of closely-Written note-paper. 

“ Let me have just one more letter from you, dearest,” he pleaded 
in conclusion, “ to tell me what you think of my scheme, and where 
we ought to look for a house. Shall it be Trevenua, or Boscastle, 
or Padslowe, or New Quay? I think we ought to be near the sea, 
so that our lads may get plenty of boating and swimming. And. 
1 could teach you lo row. We would live at least half our lives in,^ 
the open air, and we would study natural history in all its branches. 
1 fancy myself an ideal co^ch. I know my pupils would adore me, 
while you would be to them as a divinity. Our evenings could be 
devoted to music— we could get up one of Sullivan's operas, and per- 
form for the benefit of the school or the church. We should be the 
most useful people in our parish. It would be a bumble, jog-trot 
life, darling; but 1 believe it would be a happy one for both of us. 

1 know that for me it would be Paradise." 

The answer came by i^turn post. 

Yes, dear Bothwell, your scheme is charming. Trevenna is a 
delicious place, and 1 should delight in living there. 1 shall have 
u. little money when 1 come of age, J believe — more than enough to 
furnish our house. Shall we be mediaeval or Chippendale? 1 say 
Chippendale. And we must get an old house, for the sake of the 


14 ^ 


wyllard’s weird. 

paneling and the staircase; and we must pull it all to pieces on 
count of the drains. And now 3^011 must not write to me an3r more- 
till Edward comes home. 1 have had a curious letter from him. 
He is deepl3^ absorbed in unraveling some dfeadful mystery. He 
has not yet found the murderer of that poor girl, but I can see that 
he no longer suspects you. How could he ever have harbored such 
a thought?’' 

Cheered by such a letter as this, Bothwell worked as if he had 
been on the eve of some great examination — worked as if his life de- 
pended on these long hours of toil. Y"es, he would irel a house at 
Trevenna, the sooner the better. He had felt of late as it the atmos- 
phere of Penmorval stifled him. He had been loo long a hanger- 
on upon his rich cousin. He was angry with himself for having 
dawdled and procrastinated, and let life slide by him, while he 
wailed as if for a vision from heaven, to point out the road in which 
he should walk. And now the seraphic vision had been granted to 
him, but the angel wore the shape of Hilda Heathcote. Hilda had 
inspired him with the desire to sta}^ in En'^and, to earn his bread 
in his own country, and out of that wish had arisen this scheme 
of his. He would lose no time in putting his plan into execution. 
Of late he had read dislike in the eyes of Julian Wyllard — or it may 
have been contempt for his idle life, for his dependence. In any 
case there was that in Wyflard’s manner which rendered existence 
at Penmorval hateful for Bothwell Grahame. 

“ 1 suppose he, too, suspects me,” Bothwell told himself. “ He 
thinks it quite. possible that 1 hung that girl into the gorge. Society 
is always ready to impute evil to an idler-. There is that old dog- 
gerel of Dr. Watts, of the mischief that Satan finds for idle hands 
to do.” 

He rode across country to Trevenna the day after he received 
Hidla’s frank and loving letter. He was not going to wait until his 
darling was able to marry him before beginning his new life. He 
would start his establishment as soon as the thing could be done, 
get pupils at once, get over all the roughness, the difficulty of the 
start before he asked Hilda to share his home. Nor was he going 
to furnish his house with his wife’s money. That was just one of 
the things that he would not consent to do. He had his idea as to 
how he should furnish his house, when he found one to his liking. 

Of course he was not going to decide upon any house until Hilda 
had seen it and approved the choice. But in the meantime he rode 
off to Trevenna on a voyage of discovery. 

It was a long ride, and a hilly road, but not too long for the 
new hunter Glencoe, an animal with a tremendous reserve of force 
that had to be taken out of him somehow — an accumulated store of 
kicks and plunges which a clever rider could discount in a good fast 
trot along the load, or a swinging gallop across the moorland. 
Bothwell and his horse were on excellent, terms by the time they* 
had gone three miles together, although the brute had insisted on 
walking through Bodmin tor the most part on his hind legs. 

Lite at Penmorval had been just a shade more sober in its hue for 
the last week. Dora Wyllard had not been able altogether to over- 
come her offended feeling at that unwarrantable burst of passion 
upon her husband’s part, which had fcllowed Edward Heathcote’s 


143 


wyllard’s" weird. 

•visit. Tliat he should upbraid and insult her, that he should be 
jealous, he tor whose sake she had jilted an upright and honorable 
man, he to whom she had given all the devotion of her life! It 
seemed to her an almost unpardonable weakness and littleness on 
Julian Wyllard’s part. And she had thought his character above all 
pettihesses common to meaner men. She had loved him because he 
was noble and large-minded. ' 

His indifference to BothwelRs good name, his selfish coldness 
upon a question which to her was vital, had wounded her to the 
quick. She was not a woman to give way to sullenness, to shut 
herself up in the armor of angry pride, to give ungracious answers 
and scant courtesy to the husband who had offended her. Yet there 
was a subtle change in her manner and bearing which was percepti- 
ble to Julian Wyllard, and which he felt keenly. 

Neither husband nor wife had recurred by so much as one word 
or hint to that scene in the yew-tree arbor. Life had glided by for 
these last few days in just the same manner as of old, but the shadow 
was there all the same. The genius of domestic love had veiled hi$ 
• face. 

Dora was sitting in the library with her husband at post-time on 
the day of Bothwell’s ride to Trevenna. Mr. Wyllard was at his 
desk writing, while his wife sat in her favorite window absorbed in 
a new book, with the open box from Mudie’s at her feet, when the 
servant brought in the post-bag. Mr. Wyllard unlocked it and took 
out a pile of letters and papers, Dora watching him all the while. 
He looked up as he was sorting the letters, and surprised that ex- 
pectant expression of his wife’s eyes. 

“ You are expecting some important letter?” he said, anxiously. 

‘ Yes, 1 am anxious to hear from Mr. Heathcote,” she answered, 
quietly. 

It was the first time that name had been spoken by either of them 
•since the scene in the arbor. 

“ There is your letter, then, in Heathcole^s hand, with the Paris 
postmark.” 

” Thank you. She rose, and walked across to the desk to receive 
her letters. ” 1 hope he has some good news for me.” 

She went back to the window and opened her letter, standing by 
the open window in the full light of the September afternoon, her 
husband watching her all the while. Her face brightened as she 
read. There was no need for him to ask if the news were good. 

” Your letter seems satisfactory?” he said. 

“It is a good letter,” she answered. “It tells me that Mr. 
Heathcote has begun to see how wuong he was in suspecting poor 
Bothwell. He has evidently made some discovery about that poor 
girl’s fate. He, at any rate, has found out who she is.” 

“ Indeed,” said Wyllard, deep in a leading article in the “ Times.** 

He has found out who she is?” 

“Yes. He writes her name as if 1 ought to know all about her. 
He is still groping in the dark, he says, but he hopes to fathom tho 
mystery of Leonie Lemarque’s death.” 

There was no answer. Mr. Wyllard was absorbed by the paper. 

You were not listening, Julian.” 


144 


wyllaed’s weird. 


“ Oh, yes, 1 was. Leonie Lemarque— a Fiencli name. We were 
right then in supposing that the girl was French?’' 

He laid aside the newspaper, and began to open his letters ; but 
he said not a word more about Mr. Heathcote’s letter. Doia felt 
that he miffht have been more interested— more sympathetic. It 
was her cousin’s reputation and happiness that were at stake. 
Aifection tor her should have made these things ot greater moment 
to her husband. 

Bothwell came home in time for the eight o’clock dinner, and in 
excellent spirits. He had seen an old cottage in a large garden, ‘ 
which could be converted, by considerable additions, into a capital * 
house for himself and his pupils. The situation was superb. It ; 
stood on a height, near the junction of two roads, and it commanded 
magnificent views of sea and coast. 

“ I could make the additions 1 want for three or four hundred 
pounds,” he told Dora, when he was alo’he with her ip the draw- 
ing-room after dinner. ‘‘ 1 should be my own architect, and my 
own builder. 1 should only have to pay tor labor and materials. 1# 
did a goodish deal in the building line when 1 was in the army, you 
know, Dora, supervising the alterations of the Jungapore barracks. 

1 know more about bricks and mortar than you would give me 
credit for knowing. ’ ’ 

He had previously confided his idea of taking pupils, and Dora 
had approved, and had promised her heartiest co-operation. He 
was sure ot her sympathy with all his endeavors to win an honora- 
ble independence at home. The idea of his emigrating had alw^ays 
been unwelcome to her. 

“ And now, Dora, 1 am going to make a very audacious propo- 
sition,” he said, when he had finished his description of the cottage 
at Trevenna. ” i want you to lend me seven hundred pounds, to be 
repaid in half-yearly installments during the next three years and a 
half, with or without interest, as you may think fit.” 

“ Suppose we say nothing about the repayment, Bothwell,” said 
his cousin, smiling at him as she looked up from her embroidery. 

” You shall have the seven hundred pounds, and we will decide 
by and by whether it is to be a loan or a gift.” 

” Dora, you are too generous — ” he began. r 

“ Nonsense, Bothwell. 1 klways intended to furnish you with a * 
small capital if you made up your mind to emigrate. 1 had much 
rather give you the money to invest at home. You are the last of 
my clan — my only near relative — and 1 don't want to lose you. 1 
look to you and Hilda, and your children, to brighten the decline 
of my life.” 

” Oh, Dora, that seems a poor substitute for those who should be 
nearer and dearer,” cried Bothwell, and in the next instant would 
gladly have recalled his wo/ds, for he saw the tears w^ell up to his . 
cousin’s eyes, and he knew that her childless marriage was a grief. 

“You are too good, far more generous than 1 deserve,” he went 
on hurriedly. “ But let the money be at least called a loan. If 
fortune favor me with in the next few years it will be such a pleas- 
ure to give you back your money. And if fate prove unkind 1 
shall know I have not a hard creditor. But 1 have made up my 
mind Unit T am going to be very successful. 1 mean to work as. 


WYLLARD^S WEIRD. 145 

men seldom work — to make everything i do a labor of love. And 
with such a wile as Hilda — ” 

'“Hildawill be a wife in a thousand. I am sure your people 
will adore her. And you must make your house very pretty for 
Hilda’s sake. Seven hundred will not be halt enough.” 

” It will be more than enough. Aou don’t know how economic- 
ally I can build, and how cleverly Hilda and 1 will contrive to 
furnish. We will ride over the country to overhaul, all the cottages 
and larm-houses in quest of neglected old bits of Chippendale and 
I Sheiraton. We shall get lovely old things for a mere song, and find 
some clever lobbing cabinet-maker to make them as good as new—” 

” And in the end you will find they will have cost you more than 
if you had bought them from Nosotti,” said Dora, laughing at his 
eagerness. ”1 know how costly that kind of economy is apt to 
prove in the long run. Aon had better get your Sherraton or .your 
Chippendale furniture made on purpose for you— new and sound 
and convenient— and of more charming designs than Chippendale 
ever dreamed of.” 

” Ko, Dora. 1 am intense as a Chippendalist. I must have the 
real thing— old, and inconvenient even, it you like.” 

What a boy you are still, Bothwell. And now 1 am going ta 
tell you something that will please you.” 

“ Hilda is coming here to-morrow?” 

” No. Hilda is not coming back while her brother is away. That 
is not my good news, Bothwell. It is even better than that.” 

And then she told him the contents of Heathcote’s letter. 

” 1 am veiy glad,” he said quietly. ” That is at' least one knocked 
off the list of my suspicious friends.” 

Julian Wyllard came into the drawing-room while the cousins 
were sitting together talking, their heads bending toward each other. 
The family likeness between them was very strong. The}" looked 
like brother and sister; and they looked very happy. 

Mrs. Wyllard was in the garden next day when the postman 
brought his bag. She was no longer anxious about her letters, hav- 
ing received the expected tidings from Paris. She was moving^ 
slowly about among her roses, armed with a basket and a pair of 
garden scissors, cutting off blind buds and shabby blooms, making 
war upon her insect .enemies— enjoying the balmy air and warm 
sunshine of early autumn. 

Julian Wyllard came opt of the glass door while she was thus 
occupied. Shejooked up at the sound of the familiar footsteps, 
and went across the grass to meet him. 

” My dear Dora, are you inclined to go for a week’s holiday with 
me?”’ he asked in his cheeriest tones. 

” I am always ready to go anywhere with you,” she answered. 
” Is it because you have not been feeling well of late that you want 
to leave Penmorval?” she asked, looking anxiously at him, remem- 
bering his strange irritation, that burst of jealousy, which might be 
after all only the indication of an overworked brain. 

” 1 have not been feeling over- well — a little worried and irrita- 
ble,” he answered, ” but it is not on that account 1 want to go away. 
Aou remember my losing the Raphael last July?” 

“ Perfectly.” 


146 


wyllaed’s aveied. 


** Well, there is a still finer ^Raphael to be sold next week in Paris, 
at the Hotel Drouot. The ^!:reat Rocheiaquelin collection comes to 
the hammer. There are some of the finest Greuzes in Europe. 
There are Meissoniers of the highest quality, and a famous Hela- 
roche. 1 may not buy any of the pictures. No doubt the prices 
will be enormous. But 1 should hke to see the collection once m«)re 
before it is scattered to the four winds. Would you mind running 
over to Paris with me for a week, or would you rather stay at home 
while I go?” 

“ 1 should like very much to go. 1 have never been in Paris with 
3"0U, except hurrying through from station to station.” 

” Rave 3^011 not? That is strange.” 

“ I have never even seen the house where you lived when 3^ou 
were making your fortune in Paris.” 

” That would not be much to see. A ground- floor near the 
Madeleine. A capital point for a business man, within ten minutes’ 
walk of the Bourse, and in that central spot where the idlers and 
the workers alike congregate. A most uninteresting nesi, Dora. 
Nothing historical, or picturesque, or romantic, within halt a mile.” 

” It will be enough for me that you lived and worked Ihere. You 
must have worked very hard in those days.” 

” I was not onte of the butterflies, 1 assure you.” 

“ Mrs. Distill told me that you turned 3'Our back upon all the dis- 
sipations and pleasures of Paris; that you were a man of one idea, 
working only for one end— to make a great fortune.” 

” That is the only waj for a poor man to grow rich. 1 had to 
make brain-labor and concentration serve me instead of capital. I 
had the good luck to enter the Parisian Bourse at a period when fort- 
unes might be made by hard thinking — when, to win in the game 
of speculation, was a question of mathematics. Nature and school- 
ing had made me a decent mathematician, and lused all the science 
I had in fighting the coulissiers with their own weapons; hut 1 am 
talking a language which you can’t understand, Dora. Let the past 
be past. You gnd 1 have onlv to spend the money 1 earned in those 
days.” 

“ You are always spending your wealth for the good of others, 
Julian,” his wife answered, tenderly. Providence ought to bless 
the riches you earned in your laborious youth. I can not imagine 
3^ou caring for mone3^ for its own sake.” 

” 1 never did Sf> care for it, Dora. IMoney, in my mind, meant 
power. 1 begjin life as a poor man’s son, and tasted all the bitter- 
ness of narrow means. In my boyhood 1 told myself that I would 
be rich before 1 grew old, and to that end 1 worked as few men 
work. I was able to surround my mother with luxury during the 
closing years of her life. I was able to give my sister a dowry that 
helped the man of her choice to make his way in the world years 
before he could have done so without that aid. No, Dora, 1 was not 
a money-grubber; but I made speculation a science, and 1 turned 
th« age in which I lived to good account, it is not often given to a 
speculator to live in such a golden age as the period of Morny and 
Jecker.” 

” 1 am sure you would do nothing that was not strictly honor- 
able,” said Dora, with her bright, trusting look. 


wylLakd’s weird. 147 

“ Oh, 1 belonged to the honorable section of the Bourse,’' replied 
Wyllard, with a somewhat cynical smile. L had my ofiSce in 
London, and was a power on the Stock Exchange. And when 1 
had acquired a reputation as a financier, 1 founded the banking 
firm ot Wyllard and Morrison, with one of the richest merchants in 
London for my partner. A man in my position could soil his. 
fingers with no doubtful enterprise. Well, Dora, it is agreed, you 
will go to Paris with me?” 

“ With pleasure.” 

She was happier than she had felt since that cloud of anger had 
passed across the domestic horizon. Julian’s manner was franker, 
fonder, more like his old self— the man who had won her away 
from that other noble-minded man to whom she had promised her- 
self— the man for whose sake she had been content to break her 
promise. 

“ Can you be ready to start to-morrow morning? The sale takes 
place three daj^s hence, and I want to have a good look at the pict- 
ures before they come to the hammer.”’ 

” Yes, 1 will be ready whenever you like.” 

” Then w’e’ll leave by the morning train, and go straight on to 
Paris by the night mail. You will be able to see Healhcote, and 
hear how his irivestigation progresses. Where is he staying, by the 
way?” 

” At the Hotel de Bade.” 

” I’ll drop him a line and ask him to call on us at the Windsor. 
It is an old-fashioned family hotel, where 1 think you will be more 
comfortable than at one ot those huge palaces, where you may be 
surfeited with splendid upln lstery, but rarely get your bell an- 
swered under a quarter of an hour. You will take Priscilla, 1 sup- 
i pose?” 

, Priscilla was Mrs. Wyllard’s maid, Cornish to the marrow, and a 
I severe Primitive Methodist. 

i ” Priscilla in Paris? No, 1 think hot. She was so wretched in 
I Italy. The very smell of the incense offended her.” 

” She will not be overpowered by incense in Paris nowadays. She 
i is more likely to be offended by a new Age of Reason. However, 

I if you think you can do without her — ” 

” I’m sure 1 can. We shall not be visiting, 1 suppose?” 

” Hardly, 1 think. It is the dullest of dull seasons in Paris just 
I now, and 1 had neyer a large circle ot friends in that city. 1 was 
; much too busy a man to go into society. ” 

” You must have been a stoic to resist the temptations of Parisian 
j society— the writers, the painters, singers, actors — all that is fore- 
most and brightest in the intellectual world.” 

“ There are circles and circles in Paris, as well as in London. 1 
have been in Parisian assemblies that were eminently dull.” 

They started from Penmorval after breakfast the next morning, 
and were seated in the DoVer mail at eight o’clock, after dining at 
the Charing Cross Hotel. Dora was in excellent spirits. Change 
of scene had a brightening effect upon her mind, and she was very 
happy in the idea of Hilda and Bothwell’s happiness. She had 
handed her cousin a check for seven hundred pounds, with which 
he was to open an account at the local bank. And then he had 


148 


WYLLARD S WEIIU). 


only to wait for Hilda to approve his Choice, before he set to work 
with bricklayers and carpenters at improving a cottage into an 
Elizabethan Grange. That was his idea. 

“ We will have an Elizabethan Grange furnished with real Chip- 
pendale,” he said. “ Incongruous, but charming.” 

” Then be sure that very tew of your windows are made to 
open,” said Dora, laughing at his ardor, ” if you want to be truly 
Elizabethan.” 

‘‘ Every casement snail be opened to its uttermost width—every 
oorner of the house shall be steeped with light and air,” protested 
Bolliweil. 

And now Dora Wyllard was reclining, in her corner of the rail- 
way compartment, speeding toward Dover, through the sott au- 
tumn night, by Kentish nay-fields and stubble, and across the gentle 
undulations of a Kentish landscape, so different from the bold hills 
and deep, gorges of her native Cornwall. 

There was a reading-lamp hanging on Mrs. Wyllard’s side of the 
carriage, and she had the October Quarterlies, and a heap of papers 
to beguile the journey. Among the papers was the ” Times ” sup- 
plement, which she opened for the first time to look at the births, 
deaths, and marriages. Mr. Wyllard had read the other part of the 
paper before they reached Paddington, but he had not taken tht 
trouble to unfold the supplement. 

While Dora was looking down the first column, in a casual way, 
her eye was suddenly caught by an advertisement at the top of the 
second column. 

” The person who was to have met Leonie Lemarque at Charing 
Cross Station, on the morning of July 5th last, is earnestly requested 
to communicate with Messrs. Distin and Sou, Solicitors, Furnival’s 
Inn. ” 

” How strange!” exclaimed Mrs. Wyllard, and then she read the 
advertisement to her husband, who was sitting in an opposite 
<jorner, with closed eyes, as if half asleep. 

He started at the sound of her voice. 

‘‘ 1 beg your pardon, Julian, I did not see that you were asleep.” 

” 1 was only dosing. Leonie Lemarque, that is the name of the 
girl who was killed, was it not? Then, no doubt, the advertise- 
ment is put in by Heathcote. The reference to Distin indicates as 
much.” 

” He must have made some further discovery about that unfortu- 
nate girl,” said Dora, thoughtfully. ” He must have found out the 
date of her arrival in London, ancl that she came to meet some par- 
ticular person. Do you think it was that person who killed her, 
Julian?” 

” My dear Dora, how can I think about a business of which 1 
know absolutely nothing? For anything 1 know the girLs death 
ma}’’ have been purely accidental, and this person who was to have 
met her at the station may be a pure creation of Heathcote’s 
brain, and this advertisement only a feeler thrown out in the hope 
of obtaining information from some unknown source. Why any of 
you should trouble yourselves to solve this mystery is more than 1 
'Can understand.” 


WYLLARD^S WEIRD. 149 

"Why, Julian, did not you yourself send for Mr. Distin — did 
you not say that as a magistrate it was your duty—” 

" To do all 1 could to further the ends of justice. Most assuredly, 
Dora. But having invoked the assistance of the cleverest crinoinal 
lawyer in the land, and he having failed to fathom the mystery, 1 
had no more to do. 1 had done my duty ; and 1 was content to let 
the matter rest.” 

” So would 1 have been, if people had not suspected Bothwell. 1 
could have no peace while there was such a cloud upon my cousin’s 
reputation.” 

“That shows how narrow a view even the cleverest and most 
large-minded of women can take of this big world. Surely it can 
matter to no man living what a handful of people in a little coun- 
try town may choose to think about him.” 

“ Bothwell has to spend his life among those people.” 

“Well, you have had your own way in the matter, my dear Dora, 
and if you will only allow me to forget all about it, 1 am content 
that you and Heathcote should grope forever in the mystery of 
that girl’s fate. A lady’s maid or a nursery governess, 1 suppose, 
who came to England to seek her fortune.” ^ 

Dora was silent. Once again she felt that there was a want of 
sympathetic feeling upon her husband’s part in this matter. He 
ought to have remembered that Bothwell was to her as a brother. 

They were in Paris early next morning. Mr. Wyllard had tele- 
graphed to the proprietor of the Windsor and had secured charming 
rooms oil the first floor, with a balcony overlooking, the gardens of 
the Tuileries. The palace still stood there, a memorial of the brill- 
• iant historic past, and cabs, and carriages, and omnibuses, and 
wagons were driving across the once sacred grounds, on the new 
road that had been lately cut from the Rue de Rivoli to the quay. 
It was a' splendid Paris upon which Dora and her husband looked 
out in the clear freshness ok the September morning, but it was 
cm iously changed from that Imperial Paris which Julian Wjdlard 
had known twenty years before. It seemed to him this morning, 
looking across those ruined palace walls, the daylight streaming 
through those vacant windows, as if he and the world had grown 
very old since those aays. 

Twenty years ago and Morny was alive^ and Jecker was a power 
on the Parisian Bourse, and Julian Wyllard was laying the founda- 
tion stones of his fortune. He had started the Credit Mauresque — 
that powerful association which had dealt with the wealth of Eastern 
princes and Jewish traders, had ridden gayly over the perilous ocean 
of public enterprise for some time, and had made great fortunes for 
the four or five gifted individuals whose second sight revealed to 
them the right hour at which to withdraw their capital from the 
oompany. 

Aes, it had been a glorious Paris in those days, a city in which a 
young Englishman with a mathematical brain could court the god- 
dess Fortune more profitably than in his native capital. Julian 
Wyllard had earned his bread upon the London Stock Exchange 
lor some years before he changed the scene of bis labors to Paris; 
but it was upon the Paris Bourse that he began to make his fortune. 

Dora was tired after her journey, for she had been top full of 


150 


. WYLLAKD’s WEiKD. 

thought to sleep in the train, and even now her brain was too active^ 
for the po^ibiiity ot sleep. So, after dressing and breakfasting, 
she accompanied her husband to the great Parisian sale-rooms tjO 
look at ihfc Rochejaquelin collection. 

The inspection of the pictures lasted over two hours. Mr. Wyl- 
lard was an ardent connoisseur, and his wife sympathized with him 
in his love of art. Together they criticised the eems of the collec- 
tion, and stood in silent admiration before the famous Raffaelle. 

“ It wdl fetch thousands,” said VYyilara. 

“ Why not buy it, if you really wish’ to possess it?” said Dora. 

Why should we hoard our money? There is no one to come after 
us. Penlnorval may be a show place when you and 1 are gone, and 
your picture gallery will give pleasure to hundreds of tourists.” 

“ Ah, there is the rub,” sighed her husband, conscious of the 
latent melancholy in his wife’s speech. ” No son ot mine succeed- 
ing, when you and i are gone there Will be no one to care for Pen- 
morval — no one to clurish your garden, and say, My mother planted 
these roses— or planned tliese walks. No one to treasure the pict- 
ures I have collected, for any reason except for their intrinsic 
value.” 

“Will you take me to see the house in which you lived and 
worked?” asked Dora, as they were leaving the auction-room. 

” My dear Dora, 1 can show you the outside of that historic 
6pot,” answered her husband, lightly, ” but 1 doubt if 1 can in- 
troduce you to the rooms in which 1 worked. The present occupant 
may not be inclined to sympathize with your hero worship.” 

” Oh, but 1 should so like to see those rooms, and 1 am sure if 
the occupier is a gentleman he will not refuse such a natural re-* 
quest. Here comes Mr. Heathcote,” she exclaimed, as they turned 
into the boulevard. 

” 1 was coining to the Hotel Drouot, in quest of you,” said 
Heathcote, as they shook hands. ” 1 called at your hotel, and waa 
told you had gone to the auction-room. How well you are looking, 
Mrs. W^dlard— as if Paris agreed with you.” 

” Your letter took a weight oft my mind,” she said. ” And now 
1 hope you will be kind to Bothwell and Hilda, and not insist upon 
too long an engagement.” 

” It seems to me that Bothwell and Hilda have taken their lives 
into their own hands, and don’t want anybody’s kindness,” he an- 
swered; ” 1 have had a tremendous letter from Hilda telling me her 
lover’s plans. They are the most independent young people I ever 
heard of. And pray what brings you to Paris? Are you going on 
anywhere?” 

” No, we have only come to look at the Rochejaquelin pictures,” 
answered Wyllard. ‘‘ 1 have two or three business calls to make 
in the neighborhood of the Bourse. Wyllard & Mornson have still 
some dealings in Paris.” 

” And 1 am going to look at my husband’s old apartments,” said 
Dora. ” 1 have never stayed in Paris since our marriage. My only 
knowledge of the ci^y dates from the time when 1 spent a month a.t 
Passy with my dear mother. What a happy time it was, and hov^’^ 
much we contrived to see. It was in ’69, and people were beginning 
to talk about war with Germany. How little did any of us think 


wyllard's weird. 151 

<of the ruin that wag coming when we saw the Emperor and Em- 
press driving in the Bois.” 

“ Come back to the hotel and lunch with us, Heathcote?'^ asked 
Wyllard. 

“ A thousand thanks, but 1 am too Parisian to eai at this hour. 
1 breakfasted at eight o’clock.” 

“ And we breakfasted less than three hours ago,” said Dora. ” 1 
am sure we neither of us want luncheon. Let us go and look at 
your oil home, Julian.” 

“It is not to be called a home, Dora,” answ^ered her husband, 
with a touch of impatience. “ A business man’s life has only one 
aspect, hard work. However, if you want to see the offices in which 
1 made my fortune you shall be gratified. The street is not very far 
cfi. Will you walk therewith us?” he added, turning to Heathcote.^ 

“ Gladly, I am a free man to-day.” 

“Indeed. Then your criminal inyestigation, your amateur- 
detective work is at a standstill for the moment, I conclude,” 
said Wyllard, with something of a sneer. 

“ For the moment, yes,” answ^ered the other, quietly. 

“ And you have made some startling discoveries, no doubt, since 
you crossed the Channel?” 

“Yes, my discoveries have been startling, but as they relate to 
the remote past rather than to the period of that poor girl’s death 
they are of no particular value at piesent.” 

“The remote past? lYhat do you mean by that?’ asked Wyl- 
lard. 

“ Ten years ago. ” 

“ May we ask the nature of these discoveries?” 

“I’d rather tell you nothing at present. My knowledge is 
altogether fragmentary. Directly I have reduced it to a definite 
form — diiectly 1 have a clear and consecutive story to tell— you and 
Mrs. Wyllard shall hear that story. In the meantime, 1 had rather 
not talk about the case.” 

“ 1 see. Yon have all the professional reticence. And 1 see that 
ymu tmd Distin are working together^” said Wyllard. 

" “ How do you mean?” 

“ We saw your advertisement in yesterday’s ‘ Times.’ ” 

“ How did you know that 1 had inserted that advertisement?” 

“ The girl’s name was conclusive — Leonie Lemarque — that was 
the name of the girl who was killed.” 

“ Yes. But I did not think it was known to anyone except Dis- 
tin and myself.” 

“You mentioned the name in your letter to me,” said Dora. 

“ Did 1 really? Then it was unconsciouslyT 1 meant to have told 
nothing till 1 could tell the whole story.” 


CHAPTER XV. 

THE HOME OF THE PAST. 

They walked on to the Madeleine, and to a quiet street near the 
Madeleine, one of the older streets of Paris— a street of offices and 
wholesale traders. 


152 


wyllard’s weird. 


The house in which Mr. W 3 ^ 11 ard had occupied the ground floor 
■was one of the best in the street, a large stone-fronted house, with a - 
high doorway and carved columns— not as richly decorated as those- 
palatial dwellings of Hausinannized Paris, but a handsome and 
somewhat florid style of house notwithstanding. It stood at the 
corner of a narrow court, leading no one cared where: Doubtless 
to some obscure bach slum in which the working classes had one of 
their nooks — those hidden colonies which lurk here and there be- 
hind the palaces of all great cities. 

The ground floor was no longer the home of finance and grave 
transactions. The house in which Julian Wyllardhad schemed and 
labored was now occupied by a wholesale dealer in foreign goods of 
all kinds— from china to toys, from traveling bags to tea trays, 
chinoiseries, unbreakable glass, German lamps, English electro- 
plate. The house had become one huge bazaar, which a stranger 
might enter without much ceremony; albeit there is a strict etiquette 
in such establishments, and no retail purchases were permissible. 

Only the trade was allowed to buy anything in that dazzling 
chaos of small wares. 

While all the upper floors had been made into warehouses, 
the lower floor had been in some wise respected. The rooms in 
■which Julian Wyllaid had worked were used as offices by the 
Messrs. Blumenlein, while one of the brothers had made his nest 
in Julian’s old rooms at the back of the offices. 

“Upon my word, Dora,” said Mr. Wyllard, pausing on the 
thershold of his old abode, “ 1 feel that we are going into this house 
on a fool’s errand. 1 don’t know what excuse to make.” 

“ Why make any excuse at all?” replied his wife. “ Leave the 
whole business to me, Julian. T want to see your old home, and 1 
am determined 1 will see it. 1 am not at all afraid of Messrs. 
Blumenlein.” 

“In that case 1 will leave you and Heathcote to manage the 
matter between you,” said Wyllard, with a sudden touch of im- 
patience, of anger even, his wife thought. ‘‘1 have a business call 
to make near here. Mr. Heathcote will take you back to your 
hotel.” 

He turned on his heel, and was gone, before Dora could make f 
any objecticn. Again she had seen that dark look in his face 
which had so startled and shocked her in the yew-tree arbor. Was 
it indeed jealousy of her old lover which so changed him? Her 
pride revolted at the idea of such want of faith in one to whom she 
had given so much. 

She allowed no sign of disquietude to escape her, but went quietly ' 
into the office of Messrs. Blumenlein, followed by Mr, Heathcote. 

“ Pardon me for intruding upon you, gentlemen,” she said in 
French to the two clerks who were seated at a desk in this outer 
room. “ Thes^ offices were some years ago occupied by my hus- 
band, and 1 should esteem it a favor if you would allow me to see 
the rooms on this floor.” 

A gentlemanly-looking man who was standing near a window 
looking over some papers, looked up at the sound of her voice, gnd. 
came over to lier. 


s , _ 

wyllard’s weird. 153 

'“With pleasure, maclame/’ he said. “Have I the honor of 
speaking to Mrs. Wyllard?’* 

“ Yes, moosieur, 1 am Mrs. Wyllard. You were my husband’s 
immediate successor in these rooms, 1 conclude?” 

“Yes, rnadame, there was no other occupant. My brother and 
1 bought this house in ’71, almost immeaiately alter the war; but 
Mr. "Wyllard was the occupant ot this floor for some years after 
we were in possession.” 

“ Exactly two years,” said a second Mr. Blumenlein, appearing 
from an inner room. “ Is it possible that rnadame has not before 
seen these rooms in which her distinguished husband transacted so 
much important business?” 

“ JNo, monsieur, this is my first visit to Paris since my marriage. 
1 am much interested in seeing these rooms.” 

“ It will be an honor and a pleasure to us to show them,” said the 
elder of the two brothers. “ Gustav, there, my younger brother, 
enjpys the possession ot the private apartments almost exactly as 
Mr. Wyllard left them. He bought the furniture and fittinL^s, pict- 
ures, bronzes, everything except the books, en bloc, when Mr. Wyl- 
lard gave up his Parisian establishment. Hardly anything has been 
altered. These offices can have little interest for you, rnadame. 
They are fac^ simile of a thousand other Parisian offices. But 

the private apartments have a certain individuality. Gustav, show 
rnadame the rooms which were once her husband’s home.” 

There was a touch of German sentimentality about Mr. Blumen- 
lein, in spite of his Parisian training. He was full of sympathy for 
the affectionate wife. He had lofty ideas about the sanctity of 
home. 

1 he younger brother, Gustav, opened a padded door, and admitted 
the two visitors into his bachelor’s nest. 

The first room which they entered was the library, lined from 
floor to ceiling with book- shelves, and lighted by a large skylight. 
It was a room that had been built out into a yard. It was furnished 
with carved oak, in the Henri Deux style— rich, antique, solid. 
The clock upon the chimney-piece was a gem of old metal work. 
The covers of chairs and sofas were of old tapestry, somber, genu- 
ine, artistic. 

Adjoining this were the scdon and dining-room in one, plainly fur- 
nished in the modern style. 'The walls were decorated with etch- 
ings of the most famous French pictures of the Second "Empire. It 
was a small room; an almost severe simplicity was its chief char- 
acteristic. Nothing here assuredly ot the sybarite or the voluptu- 
ary, thought Edward Heathcote, as he contemplated the home of 
his rival’s solitary manhood. ^ 

Bedroom and bathroom completed the suite of apartments, and 
even to these Mrs. Wyllard and her companion were, admitted. 

The bedroom was spacious, lofty, handsomely furnished in a 
solid and somber style. But it was not a cheerful room. It was 
situated at the back of the house, and its windows, deeply recessed 
and heavily mullioned, derived their light from a narrow court. 
The lower part ot each window was of ground-glass; the upper 
•sashes were of violet-tinted glass, and gave an artificial color to the 


154 : 


>Y5rLLARD’s WEIRD. 


daylight. The curtains Tsere of dark brown damask, the heavj 
arm-chairs and sola were upholstered in dark brown velvet. 

By the fire-place there was the secretaire at which Julian VVyllard ' 
had worked, the large shaded lamp which had lighted his evening . 
toil. Mr. Blum.enlein showed these things with pride. Nothing 
had been altered. 

“ I am a man of somewhat studious habits, like Mr. W.yllard,’’ 
he said„ “ and 1 often work late into the night. This room is a de- 
lightful room, for none of the noises of Paris penetrate here. The 
court is very little used after dark— a passing footstep perhaps once 
in halt an hour. It is an almost monastic repose.” > 

The bed was in an alcove in a corner, entirely shrouded by brown > 
damask curtains like those which draped the tall narrow windows. 

“ There is a door leading into the court, I see,” said Heathcote, 
whose keen eyes had scrutinized every feature of the room.” 

“ What, you have perceived that?” exclaimed Mr. Blumenlein,. 
with marked surprise. ” 1 thought it was quite hidden by the cur- ( 
tains.” 

“No, the top of the upper hinge is iust visible above the curtain 
rod.” 

“ Strange, no one ever before noticed that door.” 

“ It is not a secret door, i suppose,” said Heathcote. 

“ Certainly not. But it has never been used in my time, and 1 
doubt it Mr. Wyllard ever used it,” said Mr. Blumenlein, drawing 
bacK the curtain. “ The bed stood in his time just where it stands 
now, with the head against the door.” 

“ The bedstead is light enough to be moved easily if the door 
•were wanted,” suggested Heathcote. 

Id was a small brass bedstead of English make. The volumi- 
'Uous curtains made a kind of tent, independent of the bedstead. 

“ No doubt it could,” replied Blumenlein, “ but 1 fancy it could 
have been no more wanted in Mr. VV.y Hard’s time than it has been 
in mine. 1 believe it must have been made by some former inhab- 
itant of these rooms, who wanted free egress and ingress at any 
hour of the night, without exciting the curiosity of the porter.” 

“ You conclude, then, that tlie door was an after-thought,” said 
Heathcote, “ and not in the original plan of the house.” 

“ Dcidedly. You will see how ruthlessly it has been cut through 
dado and moldings— an after-thought .evidentl 3 \” 

Mr. Blumenlein pulled aside the bedstead and showed Mr. Heath- 
cote the door. It was a low narrow door, of plain oak, without 
paneling or ornamentation of any kind. The faslening was a latch- 
lock, and a strong bolt secured the door on the inner side. 

“ A convenient door, no doubt,” said Heathcote, “for a person 
of secret habits.” 

Dora looked lingeringly round the room. Its gloom oppressed 
her. The opaque windows, the tinted light from the uppor sashes, ^ 
the somber coloring, the heavy furniture — all contributed to that 
gloomy effect. Iheonl}^ spot of brightness in the room was the 
writing-table, with its brass fittings, its handsome brass lamp, and - 
large green shade. There her husband sat night after night, when 
the rest of Paris was gyrating in the whirlpool of fashionable pleas- 
ure. lis*ht as withered leaves dancinfr in the wind. There he had 


WYLLARD^S WEIRD. 155 

sat brooding, calculating, plotting, in the race for wealth, l); was 
for money lie had toilea, and to make a great fortune— not for sci- 
ence, or art, or fame— not to be useful or great— only to be rich. It 
seemed a sordid life to look back upon— a wasted life even— and 
Dora Wyllard thought regretfully of those long evenings spent in 
this gloomy room. The idea of that monastic life had no charm for 
her. She would rather have heard that her husband had been the 
light of an intellectual circle— the favorite of fashion even. The 
picture of these studious nights spent in brooding over the figures 
in a share list, the pages of a bank book, chilled her soul. 

And yet, in the maturity of his days, her husband had seemed to 
her the most generous and high minded of men, setting but little 
value upon his wealth, caring nothing for money in the abstract. 

At the least he has known how to use his fortune noblv,’' she 
told herself, as she turned to leave that gloomy bed-chamber. “ I, 
who was born with good means, can hardly understand the eager- 
ness of a poor young man to win fortune. It is a foolish idea of 
mine, after all, that there is anything ignoble in working for riches.” 

“ Well, jVlrs. Wyllard, has your hero-worship been satisfied? 
Have you seen enough of the temple which once enshrined your 
god?” said Heathcote* lightly. 

” Yes, 1 have been very much gratified; and 1 must thank Mr. 
Blumenlem for his extreme courtesy.” 

The merchant protested that he had rarely enjoyed so great a 
privilege as that which Mrs. Wyllaid had afforded him, and with 
exchange of courtesies they parted on the threshold of the outer 
office. 

Mr. Heathcote and Mrs. Wyllard walked to the hotel together. 
It was not a long walk, and' it took them only by crowded streets 
and busy thoroughfares, where anything like earnest conversation 
was impossible. And yet Edward Heathcote could but remember 
that it was the first time they two bad walked together since Dora 
had been bis plighted wife. Ah, bdw cruel a pang it gave him to 
recall those old days, and to rememb<'r all she had been to him, all 
she might have been, bad fate used him more kindly. 

He stole a look at the beautiful face as they walked slowly across 
the Place Vendome. Yes, she was no less lovely than of old; her 
beaufy had ripened; not changed. There was a more thoughtful 
look, there were traces even of care and sorrow, but those indica- 
tions only heightened the spirituality of her face. 

Oh, wliat worship, what devotion he could have given her now in 
the -bloom of her womanhood, in the maturity of bis manhood — 
sutdi whole-hearted, thoughtful love as youth can never give. And 
it was not to be. They were to be apart forever, they two. They 
were to be strangers; since this assumption of friendship, to which 
he had tried to reconcile himself, was after all but a mockery. 
Ohivalrous feeling might keep his thoughts pure, his honor un- 
spotted ; but in his heart of lieart&he loved his first love as passion- 
ately as in the days of his youth. 

And to-day, tor the first time, he had heard her husband address 
her coldly and curtly, with a touch of anger even. 

He was not likely to forget that curt, impatient tone, and the 
frown that had accentuated it. • 


156 


WYLLAED'S WEIED. 


** 1 wa8 very glad to get your letter,” she said, presently. “ Tell 
me once more with your own lips that you have ceased to suspect 
my cousin.” 

” Ceased to suspect would perhaps be too strong an expression. 
But in the discoveries 1 have made relating to that murdered girl 
there is certainly nothing that in any way points to Mr. Grahame. ” 

‘‘ 1 wish you would tell me all you have discovered — how near 
you are to clearing up the mystery.” 

” I fear 1 am still very far from that. It is the history of a re- 
mote crime which occupies me at present, and 1 hope in that history 
of the past to find the clew to poor Leonie’s death. I shall know^ 
more in a few days.” 

“ How so?” 

‘‘ You saw my advertisement in the ‘ Times.' If that advertise- 
ment be not answered within a week 1 shall conclude that the man 
who was to have met Leonie Lemarque on the morning of July 5th 
has some part in the guilt of her death.” 

” And then— ” 

“ And then it will he my business, or Mr. Distin’s business, to^ 
find that man.” 

They were at the door of the hotel by this time, and here Mr. 
Ileathcote bade Dora adieu. 

” We shall meet again before 3^ou leave Paris, 1 dare say,” he 
said. ” If Wyllard wants me, he will know where to find me.” 

‘‘You are not going home yet?” 

“ No; 1 am likely to stay here some little time.” 

” And poor Hilda is longing to have you back at the Spaniards. 
She will not see Bothwell while you are away. She is bound by 
the promise you exacted from her. Their future home— everything 
is in abeyance till you return,” pleaded Dora. 

” The home must remain in abeyance a little longer. It is hard, 
no doiibt; but when 1 go back J may be able to give Bothwell some- 
substantial help in the matter ot that future home.” 

” He will need only your sympathy and your advice. He can 
manage everything else for himself*” 

‘‘ i see; he has been helped already.” 

” Bothwell has always been to me as a brother, and he can never 
be poor while 1 am rich,” answered Dora, as they shook hands. 

Heathcote walked slowly back to the boulevard, thinking over 
this unexpected arrival ot Mr. and Mrs. M yllard in Paris. Why 
had they come? That alleged reason of the picture-sale seemed 
rather more like an excuse for a journey than a motive. True that 
Mr. Wyllard had been known to go up to London on purpose to at- 
tend a sale at Christie and Mansoii’s; and there might, therefore, be 
nothing extraordinary in his going still further on the same errand. 
But it was strange that the picture-sale should coincide with Heath- 
cote's presence in Paris. Could it be Dora’s eagei‘ness to know the 
result of his researches that had brought her and her husband to the 
Hotel Windsor? Was her impatience the motive ot the visit? 

Hardly, he thought, for he knew the candor of her nature; and 
he told himself that she would not have misrepresented the reason of 
her jou^neJ^ She had told him that the visit was a sudden whim, 
of her husband’s, arising out of his passion for art. 


wyllard's weird. 157 

Could it be that J ulian "W yllaid ^as so deeply interested in the 
question of Bothwell’s guilt or innocence as to make an excuse, for 
being on the scene of the investigation. lie had seemed indifitereDt 
almost to unkind ness. He had wounded his wife’s feelings by hia 
coldness upon this question. And now it seemed to Edward Heath- 
cote that his real motive in coming across the Channel must be to 
watch the case with his own eyes. His manner to-day when he in- 
quired about Keathcote’s progress had been seemingly careless; but 
beneath that apparent indifterence the lawyer had noted a keen ex- 
pectancy — an intent watchfulness. Yes, it was something of deeper 
moment than a picture-sale which had brought Julian Wyllard to 
Paris, post-haste, at a day’s notice. His angry manner to his wife 
an hour ago had indicated nervous irritation— a mind on the rack. 

Y^et, looking at the question from a worldly point of' view— and 
Heathcote considered Julian essentially a man of the world— there 
seemed but little reason why he should be deeply concerned as, ta 
whether Bothw'ell was or was not suspected of foul play in ihe 
matter of the French girl’s death. Tne evidence against the young 
man was Of far too slight and vague a character to endanger his life 
or liberty. It was onjy enough to cast a cloud upon his reputation, 
and that his cousin’s husband should put himself out of the way on 
this account, seemed to the last degree unlikely. Julian Wyllard’s 
life, judged as Heathcote judged it, was that of a man who had 
lived always for himself and his own happiness. An excellent hus> 
band to a wife whom he adored, a good master, a liberal landlord;, 
yet a man with whom sell had ever been paramount. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

A FACE FJIOM THE GRAVE. 

A WEEK passed. Mr. Wyllard attended the sale at the Hotel 
Drouot, bought three of the smaller gems of the Rochejaquelin 
gallery, and allowed the Raffaelle to pass into a national collection. , 
His wife and he had gone about Paris and its enviroiia in the mean- 
while; Dora was very happy in revisiting the spots she had admired 
in: her youth. 

The week had gone, and there had been no reply to Heathcote’s 
advertisement. But there had been a letter from George Distin. 

“ The last few days have not been entirely barren in results,” he 
wrote. “ Leonie Lemarque’s hand-bag has been found at the Char- 
ing Cross Station; it was left in the cloak-room on the morning of 
the 5th of July, immediately after the arrival of the mail train from 
Dover. The bag is now in my office. It contains some linen 
marked * L. Lemarque/ slippers, brush, and comb; but not a 
document of any kind— nothing to afford the slightest clew as to the 
girl’s business in London. The police have found a hansom cabman 
who drove a tall, gentlemanlike man and a French girl from Char- 
ing Cross to Paddington Station on the morning of the 5lh of July, 
in time tor the Penzance train. They had no luggage. The cabman 
believes that he should recognize the man if he saw him again, but 
can give no clear description of his appearance, except that he was 


158 


wyllard’s weird. 


a handsome-looking man in the prime of life. He talked French to / 
the girl, and llie cabman supposes him to have been a Frenchman. ^ 
He and the girl appeared to be on verj good terms. The cabman;, 
saw them go into the Paddington Station together, about five min-'^ 
utes before the starting of the train. The photograph of the dead ■ 
girl has been shown to this cabman, and he has identified it as the 
likeness of the little French girl he drove in his cap/’ 

This was all the progress that Mr. Distin’s agents had made at 
present. The facts looked dark against the man who had taken . 
Leonie Lemaique from station to station. If he had been innocent 
of all wrong in relation to that helpless stranger, surely he would 
have replied to the advertisement; he would have come forward to 
say what part he had taken in the history of Leonie Lemarque. 

Mr. Heathcote stopped the first advertisement, and inserted a 
second worded thus: 

“ Monsieur Georges, who resided in Paris in the year ’71, and 
lor some years previously, or any friend of Monsieur Georges, now 
.residing in England, is earnestly requested to communicate with 
Messrs. Distin and Son, solicitors, Furnival's Inn.” 

He had not much hope of getting a reply to this advertisement, 
-after the failure of the previous appeal, but he thought it was well 
to advertise this name of Georges. Some insignificant person, some 
busybody who had kno\^ n the man Georges at some period of his 
existence might reply, and any information so obtained might be a 
link in the chain of that strange story of Marie Prevol and her mys- 
terious loirer. 

Mysterious Heathcote felt this man to have been, despite Trottier’s 
idea that he was onlj^ a rich American whoTived a Bohemian life as 
a matter of choice, it seemed to Heathcote as it there must have 
been some stronger ground than mere whim lor an existence so 
secluded, so exceptional, spent in such a city as Paris, where the 
delight of the rich and the idle is to spend their days and nights be- 
fore the eyes of an admiring crowd, and to have every movement 
and every caprice recorded in the newspapers, 

And.lhis man had been in the prime of his manhood, good-look- 
ing, clever, spiritual, the lover of a beautiful actress. Hardly the 
kind of person to hide his light under a bushel, unless there was 
some strong reason for concealment. 

What could that reason be, Heathcote w’ondered, as he brooded 
over the imperfect story of Marie Prevol and her niece. Was this 
Georges a swindler who had come by his wealth in a criminal man- 
ner, and dared not show himself in the light of daj"? "Was he one 
of the many tricksters and schemers of Paris, the birds of prey who 
live upon carrion, and who know themselves the scorn of their fel- 
low-men? Or had he a wife from whose jealous eye lie wasoblieed 
to hide his devotion to Marie Prevol. Heathcote believed that there 
must have been some guilty reason for the life which shrunk from 
the light of day. 

He had been in Paris a fortnight, and he began to ask himself 
how long this investigation to which he had pledged himself was 
likely to last. At the" beginning his progress had seemed rapid — 


wyllard’s weird. 


159 


triumphant almost. Starting from utt^r ignorance of the name and 
position of the dead girl, he had arrived in a few days at an exact 
knowledge of her name, surroundings, and past history. Yet lie 
was constrained to confess to himself that, armed witn all these 
facts, he was yet not one whit nearer to tinding the man who had 
murdered her. Given this history of Leonie Lemarque’s childhood 
and youth, it was still possible that Bothw^ell Grahame had thrown 
her out of the railway carriage. 

The man who look her in a hansom from Charing Cross to Pad- 
dington might have left her at the latter station. She might have 
gone alone upon her way toward Penzance, to encounter a villain 
on the road, and that villain might have been Bothwell Grahame. 
The thing was within the limits of possibility, though in Heathcote’s 
present mood it seemed to him altogether unlikely. Y’et firmly to 
establish the fact of Bothwell’s innocence, he must find the man 
who was guilty. 

It seemed to him that the man who met Leonie Lernarque at the 
station, who was known to have conducted her to another station,, 
had in a measure condemned himself by his silence. If he had not 
had some guilty secret he would assuredly have replied to the ad- 
vertisement. He would have been apprised by thab advertisement 
that some evil had befallen Leonie Lernarque, and be would have 
been prompt to come forward and tell all he knew of the girl who 
had come to him for aid, a friendless orphan, a stranger in a strange 
land. 

It seemed clear to Heathcote that Georges, the irurderer, was still 
living, still in dread ol the gallows; and that the girl who went to 
meet the friend of the murderer had fallen into a trap. The papers- 
she carried were doubtless of a compromising character, the girl her- 
self was the sole witness of the crime, the only living being wha 
could recognize the murderer. Papers and witness had disappeared 
together. 

Heathcote was fond of Paris. It was not irksome to him to stay 
there, even in the dead season. He had the theaters for his evening^ 
amusement; he had two or three friends who had not tied to the 
mountain or the sea, and in whose drawing-rooms he was welcome. 
He had the National Library in the Rue Richelieu for his clubj and 
he had. the ever-varying life of the Boulevard for his recreation. 
Time, therefore, did no! hang heavily on his hands; and he knew 
that while he watched and waited in Paris, George Distin would not 
be idle in London. Every clew, were it the slightest, would be 
patiently followed by that expert investigator. 

In his saunlerings in the Rue di Rivoli and on the boulevards, Mr. 
Heathcote had bunted assiduously tor a photograph of Marie Prevol;. 
but— so fleeting is the fame of beauty which leaves nothing behind 
it save a tender memory— that for some time he had failed utterly 
in his quest. Her name was hardly remembered by the people who- 
sold photographs. And yet twelve or thirteen years ago the portrait 
of Marie Prevol was in every shop window. It had been sold by 
thousands, had adorned every album in Paris, and had been hung 
over many a bachelor’s mantel-piece, worshiped by half the beard- 
less boys in France and Belgium. 

At last Mr. Heathcote lighted upon an elderly shopman, w'ho was 


160 


wyllakd’s weikd. 


s little more intolligeni, and bad a much better memory, than the ' 
men he had encountered hitherto. The man perfectly remembered 
Marie Prevol and her photographs. 

“We had a photograph of her by Nadar,” he said, “ a portrait 
that was the rage. It was soon after her first appearance at the 
Porte Saint Martin, and it was the costume in which she made her 
<lebvbt. She was the Genius of Evil, in a blacK satin bodice and a 
black iulle skirt starred with gold. The close-fitting black bodice 
set off her graceful figure, and her superb shoulders, and her hair, 
.wmich.was positively magnificent, fell down her back in a horse’s 
tail. It was like a stream of gold. 1 saw her in that character half 
a dozen times. All Paris rushed to see her, though she was never 
much of an actress. But her beauty made her famous all over 
Europe. We used to send her photographs to 8t. Petersburg. But 
tnere is a fashion in these things, and 1 dare say almost every one 
of those photographs has found its way to the rubbish heap. If 
you call to-morrow I may be able to supply you with what you 
want; but 1 shall have to hunt over a good deal of our old stock to 
get at it.” 

“ 1 shall be beholden to you if you will do so,” answered Heath- 
cote. “1 suppose Mademoiselle Prevol had the weakness of our 
lovely ladies in England, and was fond of having herself photo- 
graphed.” 

“ In the first year or so, when she began to be celebrated for her 
beauty, there were a good many different photographs of her — in 
this costume, and in that — and, you know, in those fairy spectacles, 
every handsome actress wears at least half a dozen costumes. But, 
after that first year, there were no more of Mademoiselle Prevol’s 
photographs to be had, for love or money. Our firm applied to her, 
offered her a liberal royalty, five sous upon every photograph, if she 
Wi)uld sit to Nadar in all her costumes, and give us the sole privilege 
of selling her portraits. But she declined. She was never going to 
sit again. She did not want Herself vulgarized by having her por- ' 
trait sold for a franc to every calicot in Fiance. Our firm felt them- 
selves offended by her reply, which was given to one of our princi- - 
pals, through an impertinent seamstress, who w^orked by the day for 
Mademoiselle Prevol, and who almost shut the door on our prin- , 
cipabs nose. Our firm took the trouble to find out why made- 
moiselle objected to the fame which photography can alone bestow 
upon beauty: and we discovered that there was a lover in the case, 1 
a mysterious lover — a man who kept himself curiously dark — ” J 

“ Sta5^” exclaimed Heatlicote. “ I* will give a thousand francs 
for a photograph of that lover.” i 

The shopman shrugged his shoulders, and smiled. , 

“ A liberal offer, monsieur, and a very safe one. Except that ! 
the man’s name was Georges, 1 know nothing about him. The I 
police would have given me twice as much as you offer for his ^ 
photograph, if 1 could have furnished them wdth one ten years ago, j 
immediately after the murder of Marie Prevol,” 

And then the man proceeded to relate the story of the actress’s j 
death, and the impression which it made in Paris at the time. Mr. ■ 
Heatlicote listened, and affected ignorance; for, even in these rec- 


161 


wyllard’s ayeird, 

. tolleclions, there might be some detail to suggest a clew. Ihere 
was nothinsr, however. The man told the story as it had been told 
in the papers, and as it was already known to Heathcote. 

He went back to the shop on the following day, and the shopman 
showed him three different photographs of Marie Prevol. 

Two were of the carte de msite size, in costume. They had both 
grown pale- with age, and had an old-fashioned look. They were 
fail-length portraits, showing the perfection ot an exquisite figure, 
as displayed in the scanty drapery ot a burlesque costume, a grace- 
ful girlish form, delicately fashioned, a perfect face, smali^ refined 
features, a head crowned wilh masses of plaited hair. But, in these 
small photographs, the soul was wanting. Beyond the one fact, 
that the original was exquisitely lovely, thej’’ revealed nothing. 

The third was ot cabinet size, and here the woman herself ap- 
peared. Here, in the face of the photograph, Edward Heathcote 
looked back across ten years, and saw the face of the living woman, 
the smile on the lips, the light in the eyes. It was a head vignetted, 
the head only, caielessly draped with a cloud of tulle, which half 
veiled the rich masses of hair. It was an exquisite face, eyes 
large and darlcand dreamy, shadowed by long dark lashes,, an ex- 
pression of pensive tenderness about the perfect lips, the nose small 
and straight, the chin delicately molded. It was not the bold bright 
beauty ot an actress accustomed to challenge the admiration of the^ 
vulgar crowd; it was a beamy instinct witii tender, womanly feeling 
and serious thought, an essentially feminine loveliness, and its chief 
characteristic was purity. It would have been impossible to asso- 
<jiate such loveliness with an eviMife, a aissolute mind. 

The color of this larger photograph was almost as good as if it 
had been taken yesterday; tiie portrait had a living look which 

struck Heathcote painfully. It was sad to think that lovely face 

had been lying in the dust for years—that the sweet smile in those 
eyes was nothing more than a memory. He was to dine at the 
Windsor that evening. Julian Wyllard talked of leaving Paris 
next morning. He wanted to take his wile on to ttwilzerland, per» 

I haps to tlie Italian lakes. Dora was pleased at the idea of revisit- 
I ing the scenes in which her honeymoon had been i»pent. They 
I seemed far away in a dim past those days of early married life, 

I when all the world was decked in the vivid hues ot hope and glad- 
I ness. Her union with Julian Wyllard had been a happy one,' but 
1 there had been something wanting. There had been the little rift 
' within the lute. That lonely old house at Penmorval chilled her 

i sometimes, with itSr silent corridors, its empty rooms. It would 

I have been so sweet to her to hear baby feet pattering along those 
i corridors — baby voices — that glad childish treble which is like the 
piping of young birds, in those spacious rooms. There were so 
many rooms, there was so much vacant space in the old house 
which only children could have filled. And now she told herself 
that the dream was past and done with. She felt as if she were 
growing old, and that somehow, she knew not how, she and her 
husband were further apart than they had been. It might be that 
the disappointment of a childless union was preying upon his mind 
— the burden of a great fortune for which he had toiled over- 
much in his youth, renouncing every social pleasure, friendship, 


162 avyllard’s weird. 

love, all things only to heap np wealth for which there should be 
no heir. 

The dinner at the Windsor was bright and pleasant, albeit Heath- 
cote was the onl> guest. Julian Wyllard was in excellent spirits, 
full of plans for makine: the most ot the Dright weather in Switzer- 
land. Dora "was pleased at his gayety. She had been going about 
a good deal with him, revisiting all the places she had seen with 
her mother — the churches, the galleries, the law-courts, that brand- 
new Palais de Justice, so splendid, so imposing, so uninteresting. 
They had been to Versailles. 

“ Did you go to Saint Germain?” asked Heathcote. “ There is 
not much to see in the chateau where poor old James Stuart shed 
the light of exiled royalty; but the old town, and the terrace, and 
the forest are delightful.” 

” No; we did not go to Saint Germain. We had arranged to go 
yesterday, hut Julian mistook the time at which the train started, 
and we reached tbe station too late for the only train that w’ould 
have suited us. ” 

‘‘ You have never Deen to Saint Germain?” asked. Heathcote. 

“Oh, yes, 1 was there with my mother years ago,” answered 
Dora. ” We stayed at the Henri Quatreior a week. 1 have ridden 
and rambled ail over the forest. 1 was charmed with the place. I 
should like to have gone there again with Julian.” 

” There may be time when we return froni Switzerland,” sakl 
her husband. 

“ Why not delay your journey for a day, and let us all go to Saint 
Germain to-morrow?” said Heathcote. ” Suppose you dine with 
me at the Henri QuatVe. 1 have a morbid interest in that hotel, 
and in the forest.” 

“Indeed! But why?” asked Dora. 

Instead of any verbal answer, Heathcote took from his pocket 
the photograph of Marie Prevol and handed it to Mrs. Wyllard. She ; 
and her husband looked at it together. She had drawn closer to 
him after dinner, as they sat at the small round table, and no\v they ^ 
were sitting side by side, like lovers. 

There was a silence as they looked at the portrait. 

“ What an exquisite face,” exclaimed Dora, at Jast. “ 1 don’t 
think I ever saw lovelier eyes or a sweeter expression. Who is the 
original? Do you know her?” 

“ She has been dead ten years. 1 never saw her,” answered 
Heathcote, gravely. 

“ But what has this portrait to do with your morbid interest in 
the forest of Saint Germain?” asked Dora. 

“ It is the likeness of a woman who was- cruelly murdered there 
just ten years ago. She was an actress known as Marie Prevol. ^ 
The murder made a great sensation at the time. You must have 
heard of it, Mr. Wyllard, for 1 think you were a resident in Paris 1 
in ’71?’*' ' j 

“ 1 was a resident in Paris till ’73. Yes, 1 perfectly remember the 
murder of Marie Prevol and her admirer*. But it w^as one of those • 
crimes which do not excite any deep or lasting interest. The case 
was loo common, the motive too obvious. An outbreak of jealous, 
fury on the part ot a jilted lover. Had the murderer and liis vie- ' 


. wyllakd's weikd. .163 

ti ms belonged to the working classes society would scarcely have 
heard of the crime, certainly would have taken no notice of it. But 
because she was an Actress and her admirer a man of fashion there 
was a fuss.” 

“ Then you do not consider such a murder interesting?” asked 
Ileathcote. 

“ Assuredly not,” replied Wyllard. “To be interesting, a mur- 
der must be mysterious. Here there was no mystery.” 

“ Pardon me. 1 think you must have forgotten the details of the 
story. There was a mystery, and a profound one; but that mystery 
u as'the character of the man Georges, who was known to have been 
Marie Prevol’s devoted lover, and who was, by some, supposed to 
have been her husband.” 

“ Ah, yes, 1 remember,” answered Wyllard. “ These things come 
back to one’s mind as one discusses them. Georges was the name 
of the supposed murderer. He got off so cleverly as to baffle the 
keenest police in Europe.” 

“ Did you know anything of him?” 

“Nothing. He was a nobody, 1 believe. A man of ample 
means, but of ho social standing.” 

“ His life was a social m 3 "steiy, and it is in that mysterious ex- 
istence that 1 find an interest surpassing anything 1 have hitherto 
met with in the history of crime.” 

“ Really,” exclaimed Julian Wjdlaid, with something of a sneer 
in his tone. “ I perceive you have begun the business of amateur 
detective on a large scale. I understood from Dora that you were 
coming to Paris solely with a view to finding out anything there 
was to be discovered about that poor little girl who tumbled off the 
viaduct, and whom, 1 think, you call Leonie Lemarque.” 

“ Leonie Lemarque. That w^as the girl’s name. Leonie Le- 
marque’s death is only the last link in a chain of events beginning 
with the murder of Marie Prevol.” 

Julian Wyllard started impatiently from his chair. 

“ My dear Heathcote, 1 thought you the most sensible man 1 ever 
met, but really this sounds like rank lunacy. What in Heaven’s 
name can ihe murder at Saint Germain ten years ago have to do 
with Ihe death of that girl the other day?” 

“ Onl}^ this much. Leonie Lemarque was Marie PrevoLs niece, 
and 1 have the strongest reason for believing that she went to Lon- 
don to meet the murderer of her aunt.” 


CHAPTER XVII. 

STRUCK DOWN. 

As Edward Heathcote utfered those words the conviction of their 
truth flashed into his mind. In thoughtful days and watchful 
nights this question as to the identity of the person who was to 
meet Leonie Lemarque at the railway station had been a perplexity 
to him, the subject of many a new theory; and now it came upon 
him all at once that this thing wnich he had said on the spur of the 
moment, in the heat of argument, was the true solution of the 
mystery. ' 


164 


wyllard’s weird. 


?! 


It was to Georges himself, her daughter ’s generous, adoring loVer, ; 
h€r daughter’s suspected murderer, that Mme. Lemarque had sent v 
her gianddaughter, as to one who of all other men would be most 
likely to act generously to the orphan girl, were it only in remorse ^ 
for liis crime. 

He tried to realize the thoughts of the lonely old woman, dying ‘ 
in penury, leaving her orphan grandchild to face the world without t 
a friend. She would go over the list of those whom she had known { 
in the past, those who were richenoqgh to be generous. Alas! how 
few there are who remain the friends of poverty. One man she had * 
known of, although she had never seen him, rich, generous to lav- ; 
ishness. He had been suspected, by herself as well as by the world, | 
as guilty of her daughter s death. But it might be that she had j 
afterward modified her opinion, that she had received some com- j 
munication from this Georges, that he had induced her to believe ; 
in his innocence, that he had sent her money, had helped }ier to i 
struggle on against adverse times, had helped her for a while, and 
then grown weary And she, knowing the place of his exile, had, i 
in her desperation, determined upon committing her grandchild j 
to his care, rather than to the pitiless world of strange faces and 1 
careless hearts, the outside world to which one helpless girl the 
more is but as pne drop in the ocean of sorrowing humanity. She ' 
had sent Leonie Lermarque to meet this man, and the girl liad rec- 
ognized the murderer of her aunt. ' 

And yet this could hardly be, since the cabman’s evidence showed 
that Leonie had been on the best possible terras with the man with 
whom she drove to Paddington Station. 

After that speech of his, Edward Heathcote had no longer the 
power to withhold any details of his investigation from Julkn Wyl- j 
lard and his wife. He told them in fewest words all that had hap- ' 
pened since hp crossed the Channel. 

Dora was intensely interested in the story. The passionate love - 
and passionate jealousy were very human feelings that appealed to 
her womanly tenderness. She could not withhold her pity from 
the murderer. 

“ Strange, that in all your Parisian experience you never met this ' 
Monsieur Georges,” she said to her husband. 

” Hardly, since 1 went out very little; while this man was evi- 
dently a rank Bohemian, who only began to live after midnight,” : 
answered Wyllard, carelessly. 

He w^as sitting in a thoughtful attitude, his elbow on the table, i 
his chin leaning on his hand, and that photograph of Marie Prevol 
lying before him. ; 

He was looking intently at if, perusing every lineament. 

Presently he looked up, slowly, thoughtfully, from the photo- 
graph to the face of his wife. 

“Yes,” said Heathcote. ”1 know what you are thinking. 
There is a likeness. It struck me this evening directly 1 came into 
this room. There is a curious likeness between the face of the ? 
living and the dead.” ^ 

That morning, on studying the countenance in the photograph. ^ 
Edward Heathcote had been perplexed, worried even by a sense of 
familiarity in the face of the dead. It smiled at him as a face he.’ 


■vvxllard’s 'VVEIRD. 


165 


had known of old, a face out of the past. Yet it was only in the 
evening when he came into the %alorh at the Windsor, and Mrs. 
“Wyllard c^ame to meet him in the lamplight, that he knew what the 
likeness meant. It was not an obvious or striking likeness. The 
resemblance was rather in expression than in feature, but one face 
recalled the other. 

“ Yes, there is a likeness,’* said Wyllard, coldly, passing the 
photograph back to its owner, who rose to take leave just as the 
clock on the mantelpiece striick eleven.' 

“1 shall look in to-morrow and see if you are inclined for an 
afternoon at St. G'ermain,” he said, as he shook hands with Dora. 

“You are very kind,” she said, “ but yoirr invitation is no longer 
tempting. You have spoiled my interest in that sweet old place. 
I shall always think of it as the scene of Marie Prevol’s death.” 

“But surely that is an additional charm,” said W 3 dlard, mock- 
ingly. “ If you are gifted with Mr. Heathcote’s detective temper,^ 
the. genius of the heaven-born police-offfcer, Saint Germain will 
be all the more interesting to you on account of a double murder — 
and perhaps a suicide into the bargain— for it is as likely as not the 
murderer’s bones are mbldering in some gravel-pit.” 

“ Y’ou forget my story of the traveling cap,” said Heathcote. 

“ That was a shrewd hypothesis on your ex-police-oftlcei’s part, 
but it is by no means conclusive evidence,” answered Wyllard. 

Heathcote called at the Windsor upon the following afternoon to 
inquire if Mr. and Mrs. Wyllard had left for Switzerland. He was 
shocked to hear that Mr. Wyllard had been taken seriously ill in 
the night, and that there had been two medical men with him that 
morning. Madame was terrible distressed, the waiter told him, but 
she bore up admirably. 

Heathcote sent in his name, and was at once admitted to the 
mlon, where Dora came to him after the briefest delay. 

She was very pale, and there were signs of terror and of grief in 
her countenance. 

“lam glad you have come,” she faltered. “ 1 should have sent 
for you— only — ” she hesitated, and stopped, with tears in her ej^es, 
feeling that in another moment she might have said too much. He 
was her oldest friend, the man to whom her thoughts turned natu- 
rally in the hour of trouble, the man whom of all others she most 
trusted ; but he was her old lover also, and she felt that nev^er again 
could she dare to appeal to his friendship as she had done for Both- 
well’s sake. 

“Is there anything very serious?” he asked. 

“Yes, it is very serious. Paralysis. Only a slight attack the 
doctors say, and one from which my poor Julian maj^ soon recover. 
But there are signs of a physical decay which may end fatally — an 
overworked brain, the English physician saj^s. And yet his life 
has been so easy, so placid, for the last-seven years.” 

“ No doubt, but his life in this city was a life, of excitement and 
anxiety, the fever of the race for wealth. He is suffering now, most 
likely, for the high-pressure of that period. Is his mind affected 
by the shock?” 

“ Not in the least. His mind was never clearer than it has been 
to-day.” 


166 


^yyllard"^ weird. 

“ When did the illness begin?’ ^ 

“ Earlj this morning, hve hours after you left us. We sat up 
till nearly one o’clock, talking of our trip to Switz.erland and Italy. 
Julian was in wonderful spirits. I have never known him more 
cheerful. He planned a tour that would last all through the winter, 
as 1 told him. It was one o'clock when 1 w^ent to h^ed, and I left 
him sitting in his dressing-room reading. The door was half open, 
and I could see him as he sat by the table in the bright light of the 
lamp. I had slept for hours, as it seemed to me, when 1 was 
awakened by hearing my name called in a strange voice. 1 sprung 
put ot bed frightened by that unknown voice, and then 1 heard the 
name again, and knew all at once that it was Julian’s voice, only 
altered out ot all knowledge. 1 rushed to him. He had sunk back 
in his arm-chair. 1 asked him what was the matter, and he told 
me that he could not move. There was numbness in all his limbs. 
His arms were as heavy as lead. 1 seized his hand and found it 
cold as ice, I rang the bell with all might, anl at last one of 
the women, servants came to my help. She roused the porter, and 
sent him to fetch a doctor. It was not quite lour o’clock w^hen she 
came to me, but it was past five o'clock before the doctor came. 
He told me at ouce that ixiy husband had had a paralytic shock, and 
he helped nie to get him to bed, while the porter went in search ot 
a nurse. 1 wanted to have nursed Julian myself, without the help 
of any stranger, wdiose. presence might worrj' him; but the doctor 
said that would be impossible. 1 must have a skilled nurse in< at- 
tendance. There w^onld be plenty for me to do, he said. So 1 sub- 
mitted, and the nurse w^as with us in less tkau an hour— a nursing 
sister of the order ot St. Vincent de Paul, a very nice person.” 

” Is your doctor a clever man?’' 

“ The Frenchman who c^me in the morning seems clever, and at 
my request he brought Doctor Danvers, an English physician. 1 
am told he is the best English doctor in Paris. They are of the 
same opinion as to the nature of the attack; but Doctor Danvers is 
inclibed to look upon it more seriously than the French doctor. He 
declared that Julian’s brain must have been terribly overworked 
within the last tew years, and when 1 told him that my husband’s 
life had to my knowledge been one of rest and quiet monotony, 1 
could see by his face that he did not believe me.” 

“ You say that Mr. Wyllard is already partially recovered?” 

‘‘ Yes, he is much better; there is still a feeljng of heaviness ami 
(lull pain. But he is such a patient sufferer, he will hardlj^ confess 
he is in pain, thougli 1 can see from his face that he suffers.” 

The tears rushed to her eyes, and she walked hastily to the 
window wdiere she stood tor a few minutes with her handkerchief 
before her face, with her hack to Heathcote, who waited silently, 
knowing how vain must be all consolatory speeches in the presence 
of so real a grief. 

Slie conquered herself, and came back to her seat presently, with 
a tranquil countenance. 

” Struck down, in the prime ot his manhood, in all the force of 
his intellect,” she said. “ It is a death-blow.” 

” Your English doctor may exaggerate the danger. ” 

” Hod grant that it is so. 1 have telegraphed to Sir William 


wyllard's weird. 


1G7 


SDencer entreating him to come to Paris by to-night’s mail. The 
question of cost is nothing — but 1 tear he may not be able to leave 
his practice so long— or he may be away from London.” 

“When did you telegraph?” ‘ 

“ An hour ago. 1 am expecting the answer at any moment. I 
hope he will come.” 

” What is this Doctor Danvers apprehends?” 

‘‘ He tears an atfection of the spinal marrow, a slow and lingering 
malady, full of pain. Oh, it is too dreadful,” cried the agonized 
wife, clasping her hands in a paroxysm of despair., ” What has he 
done to be so affected — how has he deserved such suffering^ he who 
worked so hard, denied himself all pleasures in his youth— he who 
has been so good and generous to others. Why should he be tort- 
ured?” 

“ Dear Mrs. Wyllard, pray do not give way to grief. The doctor 
may be mistaken. He ought not to have told you so much.” 

” It was right of him to tell me. I entreated him to keep nothing 
from me-^not to treat me as a child. It there is a martyrdom to be 
borne 1 will bear my part of it — .yes, 1 will suffer with him, pang 
for pang — for to see him in pain will be as sharp an agony for me 
as the actual torture can be for him. He is resting now, dozing 
■from the effects of the morphia which they have injected under the 
skin.” / 

” 1 trust if Sir William Spencer comes that he Will be able to give 
you a more hopeful opinion.” 

” Y^es, 1 am putting my trust in that. But 1 am full of fear. 
Doctor Danvers has such a shrewd, clever air. He does not look 
the kind of man to be mistaken. ” 

” Bui in these nervous disorders there is always room for error. 
Y'ou must hope for the best.” 

‘‘ 1 will try to hope, for Julian’s sake. Good-by, 1 must' go bacjc. 
to my place at his bedside. 1 don’t want him to see a strange face 
when he awakes.” 

” Good-by. Remember, if there is any service I can render you, 
the slightest or the greatest, you have only to command me. 1 
shall call this evening to hear how j^our patient progresses, and if 
Spencer is coming. But 1 shall not ask to see you.” ' 

He left the hotel full of grief at the agony of one he loved. He 
thought of Dora in her helplessness, her loneliness, watching the 
slow decay of that vigorous frame, the gradual extinction of thai 
powerful mind. What sentence coiild be more awful, what mai- 
tyrdom more terrible for a tender-hearted.woman? 

He called at the AVindsor in the evening. Thq, patient was much 
the same. Sir William Spencer was to be there at eight o’clock 
next .morning. 

Mr. Heathcote was watching in front of the hotel when the phy- 
sician drove up in a ffy from the station. Dr. Danvers had gone 
into the hotel a few minutes before. Heathcote waited to see Sir 
William Spencer leave the hotel in the same ffy. He was accom- 
panied to the carriage door by Dr. Danvers. They were talking as 
they came out of the yorte cocliere, and their faces were very grave. 
Heathcote felt that the great English doctor had not left hope behind 
him in those rooms on the first fioor, with their sunny windows 


wyllard’s weird. 


166 

facing the palace garden. He had hot the heart to intrude ppon 
Dora immediately after the consultation, though he was very 
anxious to hear Sir William’s verdict He watched the fly drive 
away, while Dr. Danvers walked Jbriskly in the ooposile direction; 
and "then he strolieci along the Rue de Rivoli toward the Palais 
Royitl, hardly knowing where he went, so deeply were his thoughts 
occ^upied by the grief of the woman he loved. 

if he were to die now, that snccessful rival of his, the man who 
had stolen his plighted wife from him, the thought would come, 
though he tried to shut his mind against it, though he hate’d him- 
self for harboring so basely selfish an idea. The question would 
shape itself in his mind, would be answered somehow or other. 

It Julian Wyllard were to die, and Dora were again free to wed 
whom she chose, would the old love be rekindled in her heart? 
"Would the old love seem nearer and dearer to her than any oilier 
man on earth? Would she reward him for long years of patient 
devotion,' for a faithfulness that had never wavered? Alas, no, he 
could hope for no such reward, he who had married within a year 
or two of losing her, who had, in the wnrld’^s eye, consoled himself, 
speedily for that loss. Could he go to her and say, “ I never loved 
my wife; I married her out of pity. My love was given to you, 
and you alone'”? 

That was his secret. To Dora Wyllard he must have seemed as 
flckle as tfie common herd of men, who change their earthly idols 
as easily .as they change their tailors. He could put forward no 
claim tor past constancy. Ho, were she once again free, it would 
be by the devotion of the future that he must win her. 

- And then he recalled what the physician had said about Julian 
Wyllard ’s. malady. It would be a slow and lingering disease— a de- 
cay of years, perhaps. He saw the dark possibility of such a mar- 
tyrdom. Dora’s life would be worn and wasted in the attendance 
upon tl^at decaying frame, that sorely tried mind and temper. She 
would sacrifice . health, spirits, life itgelf, perhaps, in devotion to 
that atflicted husband. And when the end at last came —the dismal 
end of all her care and tenderness — would she be a woman to be 
wooed and won? Would not life for her be over, all possibility of 
happiness forever gone? Only a little respite, a little rest remaiiiing 
before the grave should close on her broken heart. 

No, there was but little ground for selfish rejoicing, for wicked 
iiope, in Julian AVyllard’s malad}^. 

Heathcote ordered a simple breakfast in one of the quietest cafes, 
in the J^alais Royal, and lingered over the meal and the newspapers 
till he was able to present himself with a better grace at the Wind- 
sor. He had some difliculty in reading the news of the day with 
attention, or even comprehension, so full were his thoughts. He 
recalled Julian Wyllard’s manner and bearing during the last few 
months, and wondered at the vigor, the freshness of mind, the power 
which had been so obvious in every look, and tone, .and gesture. 
That such a man could suddenly be struck down without a day’s 
warning, without any imaginable cause, seemed almost incompre- 
hensible. Had the nature of the attack been different the thing 
would have appeared less inexplicable. An apoplectic tit' striking 
dowQ the strong man in his might, as it from the blow of a Nasmyth 


AVYLLARD S WEIRD. 


169 

liammer,^ would have seemed far more in character with the natuie 
of his patient, his vigorous manhood, his appearance of physical 
power. 

Mr. Heathcote called at the Windsor between twelve and one 
o'clock, and had only a few minutes to wait in the mlon before he 
was joined by Mrs. W3dlard. 

She was very pale, but she was more composed than on the pre- 
- vious day. Her countenance had a rigid look, Heathcote thought, 
as if she had schooled herself to composure by a severe mental effort. 
The hand she gave him was deadly cold. 

“1 hope you ha\re good news for me,'' he said. ** Is Spencer 
mote hopeful than your Paris phj’sician?" 

“ No, there is no hope. 1 had a long talk with both the doctors 
after their consultatiou. It was very ditficult to wring the truth 
from them both — to get them to be quite candid. They seemed to 
pity me so much. They were full of kindness. As if kindness or 
pity would help me in my trouble for him. Nothing can help me 

• — no one—excepf God. And perhaps He will not. It.seems that 
in this life there are a certain number of victims, chosen haphaz- 
ard, Who must sufter mysterious, purposeless agonies; and Julian is 
to be one of those sufferers. It is bitter, inexplicable, cruel. My 

~ soul revolts against these fruitless punishments." 

“ Tell me what Sir William said." 

“ The worst. Julian’s symptoms indicate a disease of the spinal 
cord; progressive muscular atrophy. Sir William called it a disease 
~ generally caused by excessive muscular activity, but in this case due 
to the strain upon the mind. He will waste away inch by inch, hour 
by hour, and he will suffer terribly. Yes, that is the worst. This 
gradual decay will be a long martyrdom. He will be dependent on 
opiates for reliet. I am to take comfort in the thought that his pain 
can be soothed by repeated injections of morphine. He is to exisL 
, under tire influence of narcotics. He who a few months ago seemea 
the incarnation of health and vigor." 

" A few months ago, you say? Then you have remarked a 
change in him of late?" inquired Heathcote. 

Yes, there has been a change, subtle, mysterious. I could not 
describe the symptoms to Sir William Spencer. But there was a 
" curious 'alteration in his ways and manner. Ho was much more 
irritable. He had strange intervals of silence. " 

" Can you recall the beginning of this alteration?" 

; " Hardly. It was a change that seems to have had no beginning. 

It Was so gradual— imperceptible almost. It was in that very op- 
pressive weather at the beginning of August that I noticed he was 
j looking ill and haggard. I thought that he was an^y and worried 

• about Bothwell, and that he was vexed at the stupidity of his bail- 
i iff, who had mismanaged one of the farms, and involved him in a 
j law suit with one of the tenants. I fancied these things were worr}^- 
j ing him, that the excessive heat was making him ill. I begged him 
[ to take medical advice; but he was angry at the suggestion, and de- 
I dared that he never felt better In his life." 

“ What does Sir William advise?" 

“ That we should go back to PenmorvaT at once, or, at least, as 
soon as the pioper arrangements can be made for the journey. 1 


liiT wyllard's weird. 

have telegraphed to Julian’s valet to come here immediately, and 
Sir William will send a trained nurse Ironi London by the eveuinu’ 
mail. AVe shall have plenty of help. Fortunately, it is Julian’s' 
own wish to go back to Cornwall.” 

” Is there any improvement in his health to-daj"?” 

” 1 dare not say there is improvement. He is very calm, quite 
resigned. The physicians told him the nature of his malady, but - 
they did not tell him that it is hopeless.' They left his own iutelli 
gence to discover that, and 1 fear he knows the truth only too well 
already. AVould you like to see him, if he is inclined to receive 
you?” 

‘‘ Yes, i should much like to see him ” 

Dora went into the adjoining room, and dosed the door behind 
her. She reopened it almost immediately, and beckoned to Heath- 
cote, who went in with careful footstep and bated breath, almost 
as he might have entered the chamber of death. 

Julian Wyllard was reclining on a sofa, his head and shoulders 
propped up by pillows, his legs covered with a fur rug. There was 
something in the very position of the body, so straight, so rigid a 
line from the waist downward, which told of that death in life that 
had fallen upon the strong man whom Edw^ard Heathcote had last 
seen erect, in all the pride of manhood, tall, broad-shouldered, pow- 
erful-looking. 

“ AVell, Heathcote, you have come to see the wreck of proud hu- 
manity,” he said, with a half sad, half cynical smile. ” You did 
not know when you were with us the other night that my race was 
so nearly run, that 1 was to break down in the middle of the 
course. 1 had had my warnings, but had made light of them, and 
the blow^ came une.Ypectedly at last. Hut it has left the brain clear. 
That is some comfort. Sit down; 1 want to talk to you— and 
Dora — seriously. ’ ’ 

^ He was very pale — white to the lips even, and his wife was watch- 
ing him anxiously, surprised at the signs of profound agitation in ^ 
him who had been so calm after the physicians had left him. 

‘‘lam very sorry for you, Wyllard;, sorry wdth all my heart,” said 
Heathcote, earnestly, as he took the chair nearest. the sofa, while 
Dora seated herself on the other side, close to her husband. 

” Yoai are miore than good. 1 am assured that everybody will — 
pity me,'” this with a smile of bitterest meaning. “ But 1 want to 
talk to you about two people in w’hom you and Dora are both intei - 
csted — your very lovable sister, and my wife’s scapegrace cousin. 
They are devoted to each other, it seems, and except for this little 
cloud upon Bolhwell ’s character, 1 take it you had no objection to 
the natch.” 

” That was my chief objection.” 

” Forgive me for saying that if was a most foolish one. Because 
a few country bumpkins take it into theii heads to suspect a gentle- 
man— ” 

“ Pardon me, Mr. Wyllard, if I confess that 1 was among those 
bumpkins. Mr. Grahame’s refusal to answ^er Mr. Distin’s ques- 
tions, and his obvious agitation, led me to believe that he w as con- 
cerned in that girl’s death. 1 am thankful to be able to say that 
my discoveries on this side of the Channel all point in a different 



' 1 




. AVYLLARirS WEIRD. ^ 171 

direction, while my sister assures me that her lover has satisfactorily 
explained the reason of his peculiar conduct at the inquest/’ 

“You have no further objection to Bothwell as a husband for 
your sister?” 

“ No, my esteem for the race front which he sprung is a strong 
reason why 1 snould sanction the match, although worldly wisdom is 
decidedly against a girl’s marriage with a man who was a soldier, 
and who is — nothing.” 

“ It shall be our business— Dora’s and mine— to reconcile worldly 
wisdom and foolish love. My wife tells me that her cousin has 
turned over a new leaf — that h€ has set himself to begin a new ca- 
reer wdth a wonderful amount of energy — just that strong purpose 
which has been lacking in him hitherto.” 

“ 1 have heard as much, -and a good deal more than this, from 
my sister.” 

“Well, then, my dear Heathcote, all 1 need add is that means 
shall not be wanting to my wife’s kinsman to enable him to carry 
out the scheme of life which he has made for himself, comfortably 
and creditably. Dora and 1 are both rich. We have no children. 
We can afford to be generous in the present, and those we love must 
naturally profit by our w^ealth in the future.' Dora’s fortune will, 
in all likelihood, go to Both well’s children. In a word, your sister 
is not asked to marry a pauper.” 

“ 1 have never thoiurlitot the question from a financial standpoint.” 

“ But it must not be the less agreeable to you to know that the 
financial aspect is satisfactory,” answered Wjdlard. “ And now 
what is to hinder a speedy marriage? It is my wife’s wish, Both- 
well’s wish, mine, everybody’s so far as 1 can understand, except 
}^our8. You are the only hinderance. Keatbcbte, 1 want to see Both- 
well and Hilda united before 1 die.” 

“ Julian,” cried his wife, with a stifled sob. 

“ Oh, my dearest, 1 am not going to leave you yet awhile,” an- 
swered her husband, clasping her hand, and raising it to his lips 
with infinite tenderness. “ My doctors promise me a slow deliver- 
ance. But when a man has begun to die, were it ever so gradu- 
ally, it is time for him to set his house in order. 1 should like to 
see Bothwell and Hilda married in Bodmin Church, before the eyes 
of the people who have maligned my wife’s kinsman. 1 should like 
the wedding to take place as soon as possible.” 

“ I am sure Mr. Heathcote will not refuse your request^’ said 
Dora, with a pleading look at Heathcote. 

“ If Hilda and her lover can fulfill their own scheme of happiness 
by a speedy marriage, I will not be a stumbling-block,” said Heath- 
cote. 

After this they talked for a little while of indifferent subjects, of 
the journey back to Cornwall — that tedious journey of a helpless in- 
valid which would be so different from any previous experience of 
Julian Wy Hard’s. He spoke oi it lightly enough, affecting a phil- 
osophical disdain of the changes and chances of this little life; but 
Heathcote marked the quiver of his lip— the look of pain, which 
neither pride nor stoicism could suppress. 

Yes, it was a hard thing for such a^ man, in the very prime of life 
— handsome, clever, prosperous— to be so struck down^ and it could 


IVZ - • Willard’s weird. 

but be said that Juliau 'Wyllard carried himself firmly under the 
trial. 

Heathcote and Dora parted sorrowfully outside the sick-room. 

“Is it 'not good of him to wish to see BothwelTs happiness se- 
cured?” she said. 

“It is very good of him to think of any one except himself at 
such a moment,” answered Heathcote. 

“ 1 am so glad he has won your consent to an early mariiage. 
Vnd^ now that you have given that cansent—now that we aie all 
^^ured of the folly of any suspicion pointing at Bothwell — you will 
•)uble yourself no more about the mysteiy of that poor girl’s 
.leath. ” 

“ Not at all. 1 shall go on with my investigation, in the interests 
of justice. Besides, Bothw ell’s character can never be thoroughly 
rehabilitated till the real criminal is found ; and, for a third reason, 
1 am interested in this strange story as a work of art. Good-by, 
Mrs. Wyllard. If 1 can be of any use to jmu to-morrow in helping: 
to move your invalid, pray send for me. If not, 1 suppose we shall 
not meet till 1 cail on you at Penmorval. 1 leave the business of 
Hilda’s marriage in your direction. She cannot have a better ad- 
viser than you, and whatever plans you make 1 shall sanction.” 

He left the hotel and strolled toward the Madeleine, hardly know- 
ing what he should do with the rest of his day. He had an appoint- 
ment with Sigismond Trottier in the evening. That gentleman and 
he were to meet at tl;^e Gymnase at the first performance of a new 
play, and they" were to sup at Vachette’s afterward, when Healheote' 
was to hear any fresh facts that the paragraplust might have gath- 
ered for him relating to the mysterious Georges and the once cele- 
brated Mademoiselle Prevol. Trottier had promised to hunt up the 
few men who had been inlimate with Georges, and to get all the 
information he could from them. 

In front of the Madeleine Heathcote was overtaken by that good- 
natured merchant,. Monsieur Blumenlein, who had taken so much 
pleasure in showing his apartments to 31r8. Wyllard. They walked 
on together for a short distance, in the direction of the Blumenlein 
establishment, and Heathcote told the merchant of his predecessor’s 
sudden illness. 

Monsieur Blumenlein was interested and sympathetic, and as they 
wer# now in front of his office, he insisted upon Mr. Heathcote going 
in to smoke a cigarette, or share a bottle of Lafitte with him. 
Heathcote accepted the ciararette, not sorfy to find an excuse for re- 
visiting his ri\rars old abode. He blamed himself for this curiosity 
about Julian Wyllard’s youth, as an unworthy and petty feeling; 
yet, he could not resist the temptation to gratify that curiosity which, 
chance had thrown in his way. 

They went through the offices, where clerks were working at 
their ledgers, and warehousemen hurrying in and out, and passed 
into the library — that handsome, and somewhat^ luxurious apart- 
ment, which remained in all things, save the books upon the shelves, 
exactly as Julian Wyllard had left it. 

“ Did you know him twenty years ago?” asked Blumenlein, after 
they had talked of the late tenant and his wonderful career in Paris. 


wyllard’s weird. 173 

/ 

No, 1 never saw him till just before his marriage, about seven 
years ago.” 

“ Ah, then you did not know him as a young man. I have a 
photograph of him in that drawer yonder,” pointing to a writing 
table, by the tire-place, “taken fifteen years ago, when he was be- 
ginning to make his fortune; when the Credit Mauresque was at the 
height of its popularity. It went to smash, afterward, as, no doubt, 
you know; but Wyllard contrived to get out of it with clean hands 
--only just contrived.” 

“ You mean to say that his part in the transaction was open to 
doubt?” 

“ M}’’ dear sir, on the Bourse, during the Empire, everything was, 
more or less, open to doubt. There were only two irrefragable facts 
in the financial world of that time. There was a great deal of 
money made, and a great deal of money lost. Mr. Wyllard was a 
very clever man, and he contrived to be from first to last on the 
winning side. Nobody ever brougiit any charge of foul play 
against him, and, in this matter, he was luckier, or cleverer, than 
the majority of his compeers.” 

“ 1 should like to see that photograph of which you spoke just 
now,” said Heathcote. 

“ You shall see it. A clever face, a remarkable face, 1 take it.” 
answered Blumenlein, unlocking a drawer, and producing a photo- 
graph. 

Y^es, it was a fine head, a powerful head, instinct wilh wondrous 
vitality, with the energy of a man bound to dominate others, in any 
sphere of life; a master of whatever craft he practiced. It was not 
the face of abstract intellect. The white, cold light of the student 
did not illumine those eyes, nor did the calm of the student’s tran- 
quil temper inform the mouth. Tliere was passion in the face; 
strongest human feelings were expressed there; the love of love, 
the hate of hate. 

“ It is a marvelous face for a money-grubber,” exclaimed Heath- 
cote, “ an extraordinary countenance for a man who could shut 
himself from all the charms of the world, such a world as the l:;ec- 
ond Empire, a man who could be indifferent to art, beauty, wit, 
music, social pleasures of all kinds, and live only for his cash-box 
and bank book. Difficult to reconcile this face wilh the life 'vyhich 
we are told Mr. Wyllard led in these rooms.” 

“ It is more than difficult,” said Blumenlein. “ It is, to my mind, 
impossible to believe in so monstrous an anomaly as that sordid life 
endured for nearly ten years by such a temperament as that which 
the photograph indicates. 1 am something of a physiognomist, and 
I think that 1 know what that face means; if faces have any 
meaning whatever. It means strong passions, a fervid imagina- 
tion, a mind that could not be satisfied with the triumphs of suc- 
cessful finance. It means a nature in which the heart must have 
fair play. Whatever Julian Wyllard’s life may have appeared in 
the eyes of the men with whom he had business relations— however 
he may have contrived to pass for the seiious genius of finance, old 
befoie his time, the embodiment of abstruse calculations, far-see- 
ing policy— be sure that the life was not a barren life, and that the 
scorching breath of passion had passed across the speculator’s toils.” 


174 


avyllard’s weird. 


“ But this life seems to have beeu patent to all the world.*’ • < 

“ Yes, Mr. Heathcote, the life he led in public. But who knows: 
how he may have plunged into the dissipations of Paris aftei 
hours? That little door in the alcove has its significance, you may 
be sure. 1 made light of it in Mrs, Wyllard’s presence— women aie 
jealous even of the past. Why should 1 deprive her of the pleasure 
of considering her husband a model of propriety, in the remote past, 
as well as in the present; 1 affected— for that dear lady's sake— to 
believe the side door the work of a prior tenant to Mr. Wyllard. 
But 1 happen to have documentary evidence that Mr. Wyllard had 
the door made for him in the third vear of his tenancy. 1 found 
the receipted account of the builder who made it among some papers 
left by my predecessor at the back of a cupboard.” 

” Then you think AVyllard was a man .with two faces?” 

” I da,” replied Blumenlein, ” 1 think that Wyllard, the specu- 
lator, the financier, was one man: but that there was another man 
of whose life the world knew nothing, and who went out and came 
in between dusk and dawn by that side door in the court.’' 


CHAPTER XVlll. 

THE GENERAL RECEIVES A SUMMONS. 

While Both well was working out the scheme of an industrious, 
unpretentious life, to be spent with the woman he loved on that wild 
Cornish coast on which he liad been reared, and which was to him 
as a passion. Lady Valeria Harborough was shining in the county 
and military society within twenty miles of Plymrouth— admired, 
envied, to outward seeming the most fortunate of women. She 
went everywhere, she received everyone worth receiving. She had 
brought something of the easy manners, the unceremonious gayety 
of Simla to her Devonshire villa. Her afternoon parties were the 
gayest in the neighborhood. Her w'eekly musical evenings were the 
rage. She engaged the best professional talent obtainable for these 
evenings. She rigidly eschewed the amateur element. She selected 
music and songs with an extraordinary tact, and contrived that no 
hackneyed composition should ever be heard at her parties. The 
newest ballads, the last successes in modern classical music were 
first revealed to the neighborhood at Harboruugh Villa. There people 
heard the gavotte that was going to be fashionable, the song that was 
to be the rage next year, and on these evenings when the flowery 
poiTidors, the lonir suite of rooms, were rilled with guests, when the 
spacious music-room, with its tw^o grand pianos and magnificent 
organ, was thrown open to the crowd, Lady Valeria circulated 
amidst the throng, gracious, graceful, smiling, a queen among 
women, not so beautiful as the fairest of her guests, but by far the 
most attractive of them all. There was a subtle charm in those 
dreamy eyes and in that languid smile. Beardless subalterns wor- 
shiped her as if she had been a goddes -; and many a man who 
could hardly have been included in Lady Valeria’s list of ” nice 
boys,” felt tiis heart beat faster as she lingered by his side for a few 
minutes. She had a smile anti a word for every one who crossed 


AVYLLARD.^S WEIRD. 


175 


lier threshold: the most insiji^Dificant guest was greeted and remem- 
bered. She seemed a woman who lived only for society, who had 
lulfllled her mission when she had l)een admired. The general was 
proud of his young wife’s success, delighted that his house sliould be- 
known as the pleasantest in the county: He could afford that money 
should be spent as if it were water. He never complained of the 
! vexpeuses of his establishment, but he knew the cost of everything, 
and paid all accounts with his own checks. Unluckily for Lady 
Valeria, old habits of strict accountancy, acquired in the days when 
he was adjutant of his regiment, had clung to him. He liked 
accounts, and was in some measure his own house-stew*ard. There 
■was no possibility of Lady Valeria’s gambling debts being paid Out. 
of the domestic funds. Everything w^as done on a large scale, but 
by line and rule. A ro3^al household could not have been managed 
more rigidly. Thus it was that Lady Valeria's money difficulties 
were very real difficulties, and it was onl}^ by a fall confession of 
her folly that she could have obtained her husband’s help. 

It was just this eontession, this humiliation, to which Lady 
Valeria could not bring herself. Candor was the very feeblest of 
her instincts. She had not been brought up in the school of truth. 
Her father had been a tyhint, her mother a dealer in expedienis, a 
diplomatist, a marvel of tact and cleverness, able to achieve won- 
ders in domestic management, in social policy. But life at Lost- 
withiel Castle had been a constant strain, and duplicity had become 
an instinct with mother and children. There had been always 
something to hide from the earl — a son’s debts, a daughter’s flirta- 
tion, a milliner’s bill, a debt of honor. Valeria had been oppressed 
with gambling debts before she was twent3^ She had played deep, 
and borrowed money in her first season. She had married, hoping 
_ that General Haiborough’s wealth would be hers to spend as she 
plea?^"^; but in this she had been disappointed. She had married 
the ijSiost generous of men, but she had married a man_of business. 
He made a magnificent settlement before marriage; he made a will 
after marriage, leaving the bulk of his fortune to his young wife, to 
be Ivi^rs, and in lier own control, if there were no children — hers 
without any embargo as to a second marriage. She had pin-money 
that would have been-a liberal allowance for a countess, but she had 
not the handling of her husband’s income. She could not have 
cheated him out of a five-pound note. He had told her in the be- 
gisrming of their married life that it would be so. He was a man of 
business, and she was too young to be troubled with the sordid de- 
tails of domestic life. 

“ Order what you like, love. IVIakeour home as beautiful as you 

,n. 1 will pay Vour bills, and take care that 3^11 are not cheated 

f your tradesmen.” 

At the outset Lady Valeria had accepted this arrangernent as alto- 
gether delightful; but there came a time when she found that it had 
its inconveniences. 

6 To-night, in the balmy September weather, the windows of the 
villa were all open to the sky and the garden — open to the music of 
the distant sea, and Lady Valeria was sitting in the veranda where 
a week ago she had bidden farewell to Both well Grahame. It was 
I nearly midnight, and the crowd ^ was concentrated in the music- 


1 


176 


wyllakd's weird. 


iooth, where Herr Stalmann was pLiying a new Sauterelle on his 
violoncello. The moon was shining over the sea yonder, gleaming 
upon the long, while line ot breakwater, and the distant view ot 
Plymoutli looked even more Italian than in the daytime. Lady 
Yaleria wore a long. Rowing gown of an almost Grecian simplicity, 
a gown of dead- white cashmere, bordered with a marvelous em- 
broidery of peacocks’ feathers, which fell in a slanting line from 
shoulder to hem, the brilliant coloring flashing in the moonlight, as 
the wearer slowly fanned herself with a large peacock-feather fan. 

“ Are you not afraid to wear so-manj^ peacocks’ featheis?” asked 
a gentleman who was sitting at her elbow, a handsome man of about 
forty, a man who was not altogether good style in dress or manlier, 
but who had a certain ease and authority, which indicated ^ood 
birth and the habits ot good society. 

This was Sir George Mildmay, a personage in the racing world, 
but reputed lo have been utterly broken for the last three years. In 
the racing world there is always a chancre so long as a man can keep 
his head above water, and Sir George might s^ill have a future be- 
fore him. Although he was supposed to have spent his last far- 
thing and mortgaged his last acre, he always contrived to get money 
when he wanted it, and he had contrived to lend money to Lady 
Valeria. 

“Why should ! not wear peacocks’ feathers?” Lady Valeria 
asked, languidly. 

Her profile was turned to him, her eyes were looking toward the 
line of moonlight on the sea, the white walls of barracks and store- 
houses. She did not take the trouble to turn her face to her com- 
panion as she spoke to him. Pale, languid, dreamy, she seemed the 
very image ot indifferen'ce. 

“ Because they are considered so ’’—casting about for a mild ex- 
pression— “ confoundedly unlucky. 1 remember the morning of 
the Oaks, the year my Cherryripe shut up like a telescope half t fur- 
long from the winning-post, my sister Grace drove up to Hat<:’hetts 
to meet the drag.— I was to drive her and a lot of ’em to Epsom, 
don’t you know— with an infernal pork pie hat made out of a pea- 
cock’s breast. ‘ W hat did you wear that d d thing for?’ 1 asRed. 

* Because it’s the fashion,’ says she. ‘Shouldn’t wonder it* my 

mare lost the race on account of your d d fashion,’ says 1. 

Grace chaffed me for my superstition; but the mare made a niost 
unaccountable mess of herself, don’t you know, and the Devil him- 
self or that peacock-feather hat must have been at the bottom ot it.” 

“ 1 don’t think the peacock’s feather will make any difference to 
me,” replied Valeria, wearily. “ 1 have been unlucky all my lif< j” 

“ Well, fate has been rather hard upon you,” said Sir Geo-g . 
drawing his chair a little nearer to hers, gazing at the delicate prtjj j 
with a more ardent look than w^as quite within the lines of frienc- 
ship and good-fellowship. “ A beautiful young woman married to 
a man old enough to be her grandfather — carried off to broil away 
her existence in Bengal, when she ought to have been one ot thr 
queens of London society — stinted to^a bare allow ance of pin-mone^^ 
hardly enough to pay her dress-maker, by Jove, when she ought tc 
have had the command of her husband’s purse. Why not cut the 
whole business; Valeria, and go .to the South of France with me 


in 


wyllard’s weird. 

directly after the l:^ew market week? 1 stand to win a pot of monej% 
and we can spend it merrily at Monaco. 1 know how to make 
plenty more when that’s gone. And, by and by, when the general 
goes off the hooks, we can make things fair and square with the 
world, or before, if you prefer it. The thing can be so easily man- 
aged. Look at your cousin. Lady Cassandra, and the colonel — and 
the duke and his countess — change of partners all round.” 

He tried to encircle the slim waist with his strong arm — the arm 
of a man Who had won cups at Lillie Bridge in days gone by— but 
she snatched herself from him with a disdainful laugh, rose from 
her chair and walked to the other end of the veranda, he follow- 
ing her, soi^ely disconcerted. He had been watching for his oppor- 
tunily. and he fancied the opportunity had come. He had neither 
creed nor principles of his own, and he believed that people wha 
pretended to be better than himself were all hypocrites. . Like 
Dumas’s hero, he was ready to admit that there might be good 
women in the world — only he had never happened to meet with one. 

He had made himself useful to Lady Valeria— had told her what 

- horses to back, and had helped her to win a good deal of money 
since her return to England. Her losses had been the result of her 

. own inspirations; and when she had so lost he had found her the 
mone,y to settle with the bookmen. And having dpne all this, and 
having devoted all his leisure to the cultivation of Lady Valeria’s; 
acquaintance, he deemed that the time was ripe for him to ask her 
to run away with him. He had run away with so many women in 
the course of the last twenty years that his manner of proposing the 
thing had become almost a formula. He modified his appeal ac- 
cording to the rank of the adored one— had his first, second, and 
third class supplicatipns; but it was not in his nature to be foetical. 
Had he been making love to an empress, he could not have risen to 
“ any loftier height than that wiiich he had reached to-night. 

Lady Valeria turned at the end of the veranda, and faced him 
deliberately in the bright, cold moonlight a white and ghost-like 
figure, with pale face and flashing eyes. IShe measured him from 
head to foot with a look of intense scorn, gazed at him steadily, 

- with eyes that seemed to lead all the secrets of his evil life; and 
then, slowly unfurling her peacock fan, she broke into a silvery 
laugh, long and clear, and sweet, but with a ring of contemptuous- 
ness in its every note. 

” You are mistaken, Sir George,” she said, quietly, moving 
toward the open window of the corridor, as if to return to the house. 
“ Your almost infallible judgment is at fault. 1 am not that kind 
of person.” 

She would have passed him and gone into the house, but he put 
himself between her and the open window. He barred her way 
with all the bulk of his handsome over-dressed person. That ring- 
ing laughter, the insolent sparkle in her magnificent eyes, goaded, 
him to madness. Sir George had a diabolical temper, and the in- 
sensate vanity of a successful roue. That any one woman could 
. really despise him was beyond his power of belief, but a wnman 
w^ho pretended to despise him put herself beyond the pale of his 
courtesy. 

“ No,” he muttered, savagely. ” You are not that kind of per- 


178 


M’-YLLARD'S weird. 


son. You are not that kind of person for me, because for the last 
three years you have bren that kind of person tol* somebody else. 
I thou^xht you must liave been tired of Bothwell (Irahame by this 
time, and that 1 should have had my chance.” 

In a breath, as if from the stroke of a Cyclop’s hammer, George 
Mildmay had -measured his length upon the tesselated pavement 
under the veranda. It was an old man’s arm that felled him; but 
an athlete of five-and-twenty could not have struck a better blow. 

General Harborough had stolen into the gardens to smoke a soli- 
tary cigar, while Herr Stalmann played his Sauterelle, and, coming 
quietly round the house, he had approached just in time to hear Sir 
George’s last speech. He had not hesitated a minute as to the man- 
ner of his answer. 

** Go to your guests, Yaleria,” he said, with quiet command, “ 1 
will see to this blackguard.” 

Valeria obeyed half mechanically. The shock of those last few 
moments had made thought impossible. Her mind seemed to have 
suddenly beconrie a blank. She went through the brilliant rooms, 
wondering at the lights and flowers and smartly-dressed people, see- 
ing everything vaguely, with a puzzled /doubtfulness as tp her own 
identity. She talked and laughed with more than usual animation 
for the rest ot the evening. She had a friendly smile and a pleas- 
ant word for each departing guest. She enchanted the artists by 
' her appreciation of their work; yet she had no more consciousness 
of what she said or to whom she spoke than a condemned criminal 
might have on the eve of his execution. 

It was nearly two o’cloc^k when she went to her own rooms — those 
spacious rooms, with their windows looking thiee different waj^s, 
over hill and valley, town and sea — rooms beautified by all that art 
and wealth can compass in the way of luxury — rooms in which she 
had sat hour after hour, day after day brooding treason, caring 
more lor one look from Bothwell’s dark eyes than tor all that glory 
of sea and land — for all the luxuries with which an adoring hus- 
band had surrounded her. 

She had seen the general moving about among his guests at the 
last. She had heard the strong, cheery tones of his voice as he part- 
ed with some particular friend; and now she wondered it she would 
'find him in her morning-room, where, on such a night as this, they 
had been wont to spend half an hour in light, careless talk, after 
the people were gone, he sitting out on the balcony, perhaps, smok- 
ing a final cigar. 

Yes, he was there before her, sitting on a sofa, in a meditative at- 
titude, with his elbow on his knees, far from the lan\p, with its low^ 
'spreading shade — a lamp w^hich shed a brilliant light upon Lady 
Valeria’s own particular writing-table, and left all the rest of the 
room in shadow. 

Then, at the sight of that familiar figure, the bent head, the hon- 
ored gray hairs— all the horror of the scene in the veranda flashed 
back upon her. The unutterable insult of Sir George’s speech — 
such insult as might have been flung at the lowest woman in Lon- 
don, speech shaped just as it might have been shaped for such an 
one. That she, Lady Valeria Harborough, should have such dirt 


WYLLARD S WEIRD. 


i?a 

cast in her face, and that the man who had so spoken could liv6 to 
teJl other men what he had said— to boast of hinaselt at the clubs. 

“ Would to God that blow had killed him,” she said to heiself^ 
and then she went over and knelt at her husband’s feet, and tooR 
his strong hand in hers, and kissed it. 

” God bless you for defending me,” she said. “ 1 am not a good 
woman~l am not worthy of you — but 1 am not such a wretch as 
that man’s words would make me. Y'ou will believe that — won’t 
you, Walter?” 

” Yes, my dear, 1 believe that. 1 can not think you a false wife, 
Valeria, though you may be an unloving one. 1 have thought for 
a long time that the sweet words and sweeter smiles which have 
made the light of my life might mean very little, after all— might 
mean just the daily sacrifice which a young wife makes to an old 
husband, and no more. Yet 1 have contrived to be happy, Valeria, 
in spite of all such doubts; and now this man’s foul taunt comes 
like a blast from a Polar sea, and freezes my blood. What did it 
mean, Valeria? 1 thouffht Bothwell Grahame was my friend. 1 
have been almost as fond of him as if he were my son.” 

” fie is your friend, W’ alter; yes, your true and loyal friend, 
more loyal than 1 have been as your wife.” 

” What disloyalty have you practiced toward me?” he demanded, 
grasping her by the shoulder, looking inio those frightened eyes of' 
hers with his honest and steady gaze, the look of a man who would 
read all secrets in her face, even the worst. ” What has there ever 
been between you and Bothwell which could involve disloyalty to 
me? Don’t lie to me, Valeria! There must have been some mean- 
ing, in the man’s speech. He would not have dared so to have 
spoken if he had not had some knowledge. What has Bothwell 
been to you?” 

” He loved me!” faltered the pale lips. 

” And you returned his love?” 

She only hung her head for answer, the beautiful head on the slim 
and graceful throat, circled with that string of pearls which had 
been her husband’s last birthday gift. 

‘‘You returned his love— and you encouraged him to come to 
your husband’s house, to be your chosen companion at all times and 
seasons, the ‘ nice bo}^ ’ of whom you spoke so lightly as to disarm 
suspicion. By heaven! 1 would as soon have suspected your foot- 
man as Bothwell Grahame!” 

” He was never more to me than a friend. 1 knowhow to respect 
myself,” she answered, with a touch of sullenness. . 

“You knew hqw to respect yourself, and you spent half your 
days in the society of a lover. Is that your idea of self-respect? It 
Is not mine. You respected yourself, and you were careful of your 
own interests so far as to refrain from runuiog away, with the man 
you loved. What need of an elopement, when the sahds must soon 
run down in the hour-glass, and the old husband would be gone, 
leaving you a rich widow, free to marry the man of your heart? 
No need to defy the world, to outrage society, when everything 
would work round naturally to give you your own way. Oh, 
Valeiia, it is hard lor a man to have his eyes opened after years ot 


180 WYLLAKD^S WEIRD. 

bappy blindness. 1 was better ofi as your dupe than 1 am aS your 
confessor. ’’ 

He laughed bitterly, a contemptuous laugh, at the thought of his 
own folly, lo think that he had believed it possible this woman 
could love him: this lovely, spiritual creature, all light and flame 
— to suppose that such a woman could be happy as an old man’s 
darling, that this young bright soul could be satisfied with the wor- 
ship of declining years, the steady glow of aftection, constant, pro- 
found, but passionless. No, for such a soul as this the fiery element 
was a necessity. Love without passion was love without poetry. 

Well, the dream was over. He believed that this proud woman 
had not dishonored him, that she could stand up before the world 
stainless, a perfect wife. But he felt not the less that the dream of 
his declining years was over; that she could never more be to him 
as she had been, the sweetest companion of his leisure, the trusted 
partner of his life. That was all over and done with. He was not 
going to scold her, or to torture her, or to thrust her from him. To 
what end? The gulf would be wide enough living side bv side. 
He would pay her all honor before the world to the end of his days. 
To live with her, and to be kind to her, knowing that her heart be- 
longed to another, should be his sacrifice, his penance for having 
tied that young sapling to his withered trunk. 

“ 1 have noticed that Grahame has kept aloof from us of late,^’ he 
said, after a long silence. “ Why is that?’’ 

We agreed that it was better we should see no more of each 
other,” his wife answered quietly. 

”1 hope you will always remain in that agreement,” said the 
general. 

He sat up till daybreak, and he occupied part of his time in WTit- 
ing the rough draft of a codicil to his will, which he meant lo take 
to his London solicitors at the earliest opportunity. 

The codicil lessened Lady Valeria’s fortune considerably, and 
allotted forty thousand pounds to a fund, the interest of which was 
to be distributed in the form of pensions to twenty widows of field- 
officers who had died in impoverished circumstances. This subtrac- 
tion would still leave an estate which would make Lady Valeria 
Harlxrrough a very rich widow and a splendid prizg in the matri- 
monial market. 

‘‘ She will marry Both well Grahame, and forget the days of her 
slavery,” thought the general, as he wrote the closing paragraph of 
his codicil. 

It was from no n alignant feeling against his wife that he made 
that change in the disposition of his wealth. He felt that the act 
was mere justice. To the wife whom he had believed wholly true 
he bequeathed all. To the woman who had been only half loyal 
he left half. A mean man would have fetiered his bequest by the 
prohibition of a second marriage, but General Harborough was not 
that kind of man. 

He wondered whether Sir George Mildmay would take any action 
in the matter of that blow. He bad assisted the fallen man to a 
^hair in the veranda, and bad taken him a tumbler of brandy, 
which Sir George drank as if it had been water. In his h&lf-stuaned 


wyllatid’s weikd. 


181 


condition the baronet had sworn an oath or two, and had walked off 
muttering curses, which misrht mean threats of speedy vengeance. 

“ If he is the scoundrel 1 think him, he will send me a summons, 
in order to drag my wife’s name into the business,” thought Gen- 
eral Harborough. Nor was he mistaken, for the summons was 
served within two days of the assault. It was delivered at the villa 
in the general’s absence. He had started for Bath by the early train 
that morning, in order to attend the funeral of an old friend and broth- 
j^er officer upon the following day. He had an idea of going on from 
:] Bath to London, to see his solicitors, and to execute the codicil 
which was to lessen Lady Valeria’s expectations. 

At the station he met Bothwell Grahame, who was on his way to 
Dawlish. 

There had been a reserve in the young man’s manner of late 
which had puzzled the general. He had put down the change to a 
deterioration in Grahame’s character, a gradual going to the bad. 
for he had an instinctive prejudice against a soldier who would 
voluntarily abandon his profession. It was bad enough tor a man 
to be.cliucked out of active service in the prime of life, in accord- 
ance with new-fangled rules and regulations; but that a young man 
should abandon soldiering tor any other career seemed to General 
Harborough at once inexplicable and discreditable. “Bothwell 
Grahame is getting a regular hang- dog look,” thought the general; 
“ and 1 am not surprised at it. He has thrown away splendid op- 
portunities, and is leading an idle, good-for-nothing life.” 

And now the general knew the meaning of that hang-dog look, 
that reserved manner which had struck him as the outward sign at 
an inward deterioration in the man he had loved as a son. He could 
understand what agonies of shame and remorse Bothwell must have 
felt when their hands touched, what self contempt was expressed in 
that cloudy brow and furtive glance. 

What, then, was his surprise this morning to see Bothwell ap- 
proach him with a beaming countenance, holding out the hand of 
friendship! ' 

“ My dear general, 1 am so glad to see you. It is such an age 
since we met,” he exclaimed, in cheeriest tones. 

Yes, there was the old ring in his voice, the old heartiness which 
had made Bothwell so different from the race of languid loplings — 
the haw-haw tribe. 

“ Yes, it is some time since we met,” answered the general, cold- 
ly; “ but I dare say you and my wife have seen each other pretty 
frequently during that time. Y^ou are the kind of man our neigh- 
bors call ‘ I’ami de la maisonJ We English have a less honorable 
name for the species. We call them tame cats.” 

Bothwell reddened, and then grew pale. Never before had those 
kindly eyes of the old general looked at him as they looked to-day. 
Never before had the general addressed him in atone which sounded 
like deliberate insult. 

“ I have been proud to be Lady Valeria’s guest,” he said quietly, 
his heart beating furiously the while, “ and have never considered 
myself degraded by an}^ attention I was able to show to her. I hope 
Lady Valeria is well.” 

“ She is very well. How long is it since you were at the Villa?” 


182 


avyllakd’s weikd. 


“ Nearly a fortnight.’’ 

“ So lcng*?V 

“ 1 have been very much occupied,” said Botiiwell, divining that 
sometiiing had occurred to excite the general’s suspicions, and that 
it behooved him to speak frankly of his new hopes. “ 1 have been 
working a good deal harder than 1 have ever worked since 1 passed 
my last examination. But we are just going to start. May 1 qet 
into the same carriage with you?” 

” If you like,” said the general, which hardly sounded encourag- 
ing; but Bolhwell, who w^as virtuously traveling third-class, got 
into a first-class compartment with the general. 

” And, pray, what new trade are you working at?’' asked the old 
man, fixing Both well with the clear, keen gaze of honest gray eyes, 
eyes which had almost the brightness of youth. 

Bothwell explained his new plans, the general listening with 
polite attention, but with none of the old friendliness, that cheery 
kindness which had so often been to Bothwell as a w'hip of scor- 
pions, torturing him with the sense of his own meanness. 

“ And pray what maj^ be the motive of this industrious spurt?” 
asked the general, ” what has inspired this idea of a useful life?” 

” A very old-fashioned and hackneyed motive, general. 1 am en- 
gaged to be married, and have to think of how 1 can best provide a 
home for my wife.” 

” Indeed. Is the engagemnt of long standing?” 

“ Not at all. 1 have been engaged within the last fortnight, but 
1 have known and admired the lady for a long time.” 

General Harborough looked at him searchmgly. Was this a lie 
— a ready lie invented on the spur of the moment, to dispel sus- 
picion? Bothwell had doubtless perceived the alteration in his old 
friend’s feelings toward him, and he might consider this notion of 
an engagement the readiest way of throwing dust in a husband’s 
eyes. 

” Do 1 know the young lady?” he asked, quietly. 

” 1 think not. She has not been much aw^ay from her home, but 
her brother is a well-known personage in Plymouth. The lady is 
Hilda Heathcote, sister of Mr. Heathcote, the coroner for Corn- 
wall.” 

” Indeed I 1 have heard of Mr. Heathcote. So you are going to 
marry Miss Heathcote — rather a good match, 1 suppose.” 

” 1 have never considered it from a worldly point of view. Miss 
Heathcote is a most lovable girl, and has all the charms and accom- 
plishments which the most exacting lover could desire in his be- 
trothed% 1 am infinitely proud of having won her.” 

He met the general’s eyes, and the steady light in his own was the 
light oi truth. General Harborough doubted him no longer. It he 
had ever loved Valeria that passion was extinct, dead as the flames 
of Dido’s funeral pyre. The man who sat face to face with General 
Harborough to day was a happy lover, and radiant with the light of 
a pure authorized love. 

“ When are you going to be married?” asked the general, after a 
longish pause. 

” As soon as I can set my house in order and induce Hilda to 
name the day,” answered Bothwell frankly. ” My dear girl has 


183 


WYLLABD’s WEIBD. 

•to i)e submissive to her brother’s will ii: this matter, and he is now' 
in Paris. Nothing can be finally settled till he ooraes back. 1 am 
stealing a march upon bim to-day in going to see the lad}' — who has 
been sent to Dawlish to be out of the way.” 

Oh, she is at Daw’lish, is she?” 

“ Yes, she is staying there with her nieces and their governess. 1 
am going to consull her about our house.” • 

“ Our house!” YVhat pride there was in the utterance. The 
general’s doubts were gradually melting away. He cbuld not be- 
lieve that a man who was so obviously in love with his betrothed 
vould have ever cared much for Valeria. To have loved her, and 
to have exchanged her lave for that of any other woman living, 
seemed to the general an impossibility. He began lo think that his 
wife had exaggerated the situation the other night in the over- 
wrought state of her nerves, stung to madness by Mildma3^’s inso- 
lent speech, excited by her husband’s retaliation. He began to think 
that there had been only the mildest flirtation between Both w' ell 
and his wife— the ordinary up-country sentimentality, meaningless, 
puerile. 

He tried to comfort himself with this view of the case. His natu- 
ral kindness of heart prompted him to help Bothwell if he could. 
He wanted to respect the wife he loved, to think well of the man 
who had saved his life. 

” My dear Bothwell,” he said, ” you have come to a crisis in life 
wiiicb most men find as costly as it is delightful. If by any chance 
you happen to be wiial our young people call ‘ short,’ I hope you 
will allow me to be your banker.” 

“ You are too good,” faltered Bothwell, strongly moved. ” Y"ou 
have always been too good to me— ever so much better than 1 de- 
served. No, 1 am wonderfully well off. My cousin has advanced 
me a sum of money wiiich she wishes me to take as a gift, but 
which I intend to treat as a loan.” 

” That is generally a distinction without a difference — when the 
transaction is between relations,” said the general, smiling. 

” Oh! but in this case 1 hope the loan will be repaid, tor the re- 
payment will hinge upon my prosperity. 1 have opened a banking 
account at Bodmin, and feel myself a moneyed man.” 

General Harborough encouraged Bothwell to talk of his sweet- 
heart and his prospects all the way to Dawlish; and then, when the 
train stopped at the little station beside the sea, Bothwell and his 
old friend shook hands cordially, and Bothwell felt that he could* 
clasp that honest hand without a pang of conscience. Little did he 
think that it was the last time that hand would rest in his. 

” Let me know the date of your wedding,” cried the general, as 
the train moved oft; and Bothwell went in high spirits to look for 
the temple, in the shape of a pretty little house in a garden by the 
sea^ which enshrined his goddess. Fortune seemed to be showering 
her gifts upon him with a bounteous hand. Nothing could have 
been more propitious than this meeting with General Harborough, 
who had promised all the help his influence could aflord to the 

Army coach.” 

The general went on to his destination. The gay white city of Bath 
iiad no attraction tor him upon this particular afternoon. He called 


184 


wyllard’s ayeird. 


on llio widow of his old triend, and comforted her as much as it wat^ 
possible for any one to comfort her in her creat sorrow. He dined . 
alone and sadly at hi^ hotel, and as he sat and pondered on the' 
events of the last week he began to speculate how much or how lit- 
tle grief his widow would feel when her day of mourning came. 
Would her eyelids be puffy and red as poor lVIrs. Thornton’s had 
been this afternoon w^hen he was talking to herV Would her swollen 
dips quiver, and her distorted features twitch convulsively? Would 
her whole frame be shaken with sobs when she talked of the de- 
parted? He could not imagine Lady Valeria with puffy eyelids or 
swollen lips. He pictured her mourning gracetully, clad in softest 
white draperies, reclining in a darkened room, in an atmosphere; 
perfumed with tuberose and stephanotis. He pictured her with a 
sphinx-like countenance, calm, bcauitful, an expression which 
mignt mean deepest grief or stoniest indifference, as the world chose 
to construe it. 

No, honestly, after considering the question from every possible; 
point of view, General Harborough did not, believe that Ids wife 
would grieve for him. 

It will be a relief to her when I am gone,” he said to himself. 

How could 1 expect her to grieve as Thornton’s wife grieves? 
Those two were boy and girl together, had been husband and wife 
for thirty years.” 

His dinner had been only a pretense of dining, a mockery which ^ 
had made the head-waiter quite unhappy. Nothing so distresses a. ; 
good waiter as a guest who won’t eat. The waiter would have. ■ 
been still more troubled in mind had he known that this fine look- ; 
ing old man, with the erect figure and broad shoulders, had eaten J 
hardly anything for the last three days. The general had been \ 
suffering all that time from a fever of the brain which had brought \ 
about a feverish condition of the body. He could neither eat nor' 
sleep. He lay broad awake in the unfamiliar room at the hotel, 
staring at the blank white blinds, faintly illuminated by the lamps 
in the street below — he lay and thought over his wedded life, which 
unrolled itself before him in a series of pictures, and he saw the 
bitter truth underlying his marriage with Lord Lostwithiel’s daugh- 
ter. 

He had been nothing but a convenience to Valeria, the provider 
of fine houses and fine gowns, horses and carriages. She had not 
even cared for him as friend and protector. She had lived her own. 
life, paying him for all benefits with sweet, false words, and ' 
sweeter, falser kisses. 

And now the spell was broken — the dream had come to an end all ' 
at once. He could never believe in sweet words or kisses again. , 
He had looked into the heart of this woman he had loved so well 
and he knew that it was false to the core. j 

******* 

The next day was wild and stormy — rain and wind, wind and rain 
— a gray sky, a heavy pall of cloud through which the sun pierced 
not once in the long bleak day: one of those days which nature, 
keeps in stock for the funerals of our frienils. j 

General Harborough stood in the dreary cemetery, and lei the 
wind and rain beat upon him unflinchingly’^ for about forty minutes. * 


185 


' . wyllakd's avIeikd. 

He paid every tribute of .respect that could be paid to bis old com- 
.rade; and then he went off to the railway station to go back to 
Plymouth by the train which left Bath at five o’clock, and would 
arrive in Plymouth a little before eleven. Ele had given up the idea 
of going on"to London to execute the codicil. That couid be done 
at Plymouth, if need were. He felt tired and ill aifd shivery. He 
thought he had taken a chill in the cemetery, and that the best 
thing he could do was to go home. 

He had a bad night, disturbed by a short, hard cough, which Was 
worse next morning. Lady Valeria sent for the doctor, who pro- 
^lounced the' indisposition an attack of bronchitis. The patient was 
very feverish, and the utmost care was needed. Happily, the valet 
wfis a good nurse, and Lady Yaleria seemed devoted. She sat by 
her husband’s bedside; she read to him, and ministered to him with 
the tenderest care. 

“You could not be better off,” said the medical man, who was 
•of (he cheery old school. “ We shall make you all right in a day 
or two,” knowing perfectly well that the patient was in for a fort- 
night’s close confinement and severe regimen. 

The general endured his poultices and blisters meekly, but chafed 
at the hot room and the hissing steam-kettle. 

“ It is worse than being wouaded on the field of battle,” he said. 

And then, half asleep and half delirious, he began to talk about 
Sir George Mildmay’s summons. 

“ The scoundrel wants to make a public scandal,” he muttered; 
“ he will bring my. wife’s name before the public. 1 thought by 
this time you liust have been tired of Bothwell Grahame,” he said, 
repeating the words which had stung him almost to madncvss. 

Valeria knelt by her husband’s pillow and laid her head against 
it, listening intently to those muttered speeches. She found out 
that Sir George Mildmay had sent him a summons to a police court; 
that the story of that blow in the veranda would. 5e sifted in a 
public inquiry; that the insult offered to the wife, the prompt retal- 
iation of the husband, would be reported in the newspapers, written 
about, commented upon everywhere. It was just the kind of thing 
to get into the society papers: and although Lady Valeria’s relations 
had not unfrequently figured in those very papers, with various de- 
grees of discredit to themselves and amusement to the general pub- 
lic, she shrunk with an abhorrent feeling from the idea of seeing her 
*own name there. 

The day named in the summons was a week off; and, judging 
from 'General Harborough’s condition, it did not seem likely that he 
would be in a fit slate to answer to the summons in person. The 
idea of it evidently preyed upon his mind, and added fuel to the 
fire of the fever. 

The day came, and General Harborough had obeyed a mightier 
summons, and had gone to appear before the bar of a greater court. 
Lady Valeria was a widow. 

The codicil had not been executed. So Lady Valeria was a very 
rich widow. 


186 


WYLLAltU'S WElltD. 


f 

) 


CHAPTER XIX. 1 

WIDOWED AND FREE. I 

Mr. and Mrs. Wyllard went slowly back to Penmorval. It | 

was a melancholy journey lor those two who had traveled so gayl}’^ 1 
in days gone by— the young wife so full of hope, so prdud of her J 
husband, who was her senior and superior, versed in the knowledge i 
of that wide outer world of w hich the Cornish heiress knew so lit- ’ 
tie. She had loved him with a reverent, admiring Jove, looking up 
to him, honoring him and deferring to him in all things, pleased to 
be dependent upon him, and now he was the dependent, looking to , 
her for help and comfort. 'j 

lie bore his calamity with an almost awtul calmness, which at ' 
times w^as more painful to the tender, sympathetic wife than fret- 
fulness and complaining would have been. The dull agony of ; 
neuralgic pain wrung no groan from him; he endured the anguish j 
of racked nerves and aching limbs with heroic fortitude. 

“It is not a surprise to me, Dora,” he said, quietly, w'hen his 
wife praised him for his courage. “1 have expected some such 
attack. There have been sensations— strange feelings at odd times ! 
— which, although slight enough, have not been without their mean- , 
ing. Life was very smooth for me here at Penmorval. Very differ- . 
ent from my life in the past; the struggles of my boyhood; the hard ' 
work and hard thinking of my manhood. Your love made existence 
full of s weetness, 1 bad the world’s esteem, too, wdiich must al- , 
ways count for something, let a man pretend to despise the world ■ 
as he may. Yes, it was a full and perfect life, and 1 told mj^self 
that 1 had come oft a winner in the lottery of Pate. And now all 
things are changed. There was this last lot W’aiting for me in the 
bottom of the urn.” 

“ My dearest,” murmured his wife, nestling closer to him among 
the heaped-up pillows of his couch, “it would be too hard, too 
cruel that you should be thus smitten, it this life were all. But ^ 
praised be God, it is not all! There is the fair, bright eternity tor 
us — the long day of rest in the land where there is neither sorrow ' 
nor pain.” 

Her husband answered with an impatient sigh. ; 

“ My clear Dora, I have neither your ^weet simplicity nor your 
pious faith in the letters of an old book,” he answered; “This ; 
life is so palpable and so painful, just now, that I can not comfort : 
myself by looking beyond it toward a life of which T know 
nothing.” 

Tiiey were at Penmorval. Mrs. Wyllard had established her bus- j 
band in her own particular sanctum,' which was the piettiest room j 
in the house— a spacious airy room on the first floor, with a lar^e J 
Tudor window facing southward, and an oriel in the south- western 
angle. Julian Wyllard had decorated and furnished this room for 
his young wife; and all things it contained had been chosen with •' 
reference to her tastes and puisuits. It opened into her dressing- ‘ 


WYLLAKD S WEIKD. 


187 


TooiE , and beyond the dressing-room there was the chief bed-chamber 
of Penmorvai, the chamber of the lord of the manor from time im- 
^memorial, the birth-chamber and the death-chamber. Its very 
spaciousness and grandeur gave to this apartment an air of gloom, a, 
gloom intensified "by the prevailing tints of the tapestry, a series of 
liuntiug scenes, executed in a somber gradation of bluish greens and 
grayish browns. The carved oak wardiobes were like monuments in 
a Gothic cathedral. The bed, with its embroidered velvet hangings 
and plumed ornaments, suggested a royal catafalque; while the fire- 
place, with its sculptured pillars and heavy decoration in black and 
white marble, recalled the entrance to the Capulet's tomb. Kot a room 
assuredly for the occupation of an invalid— not a room in which to 
suffer sleepless nights and long hours of dull, wearing pain. 

This was what Dora thought; and at her order her dressing-room, 
which was airy and sufficiently spacious, was transferred into a bed- 
room for Mr. Wyllard, while the morning-room was arranged for 
his daily occupation. It wmuld be easy to wheel his sofa from one 
room to the other. All her orders had been telegraphed beforehand, 
and everything was in its place when the sufferer arrived. 

“It is a special privilege to be nursed by a ^^ood fairy,” he said, 
smiling up at his wife, with that rare smile wliich had so peculiar a 
charm in her eyes — the smile of a man who has not the same set 
graciousness for all comers. 

After this there came the full monotony of suffering— the life of. 
routine, that death-iu-life from which all possibility of action is 
gone, all power of choice, all changes and chances of the outer world 
cut off forever — a life in which a man feels that he has suddenly 
dropped back into infancy, and is as helpless as a child upon hfs 
inotLer’s knee. The child has all the unexplored future before him, 
the infinite possibilities of life. The man turns his sad e5"es back- 
ward and reviews the past. All things he has done and the things 
he has left undone pass in a shadowy piocession before his mind’s 
eye. He sees how much wiser he might have been. The faults and, 
follies of those departed years are unrolled before him, as on a 
magic scroll. His maturer judgment, his colder blood, condemn 
the sins of his passionate youth. 

Dora was her husband’s companion through many an hour of 
gloum and depression. I’here were times when he would talk to her 
with a kind of feverish animation— talk of the books he had read, 
or of the men he had known— recall the memories of his youth— his 
boyhood even. 

“ 1 can only live in the past,” he said, ” and in your love. You 
are my present and my future, Dora. Were it not for you and your 
love 1 should have anticipated annihilation. The grave could hardly 
reduce me to more complete nothingness than this death-in-life 
here.” 

He looked round the room with an impatient sigh And then, 
touched with the pathetic look in his wife’s face, he added : 

“ Were it not for you, Dora — 1 have infinite riches while 1 
possess your love. If 1 were to lose that now — ” 

“ Y ou know that you can never lose it. My love is a part of my 
life.” 

“ Yes, but there miirht come a crushing blow that would kill it. 


188 


wyllard's weird. 


Or if 1 were to sink into feebleness and imbecility — if the mind were - 
to decay like the body — ” 

“ Tiie only difference would be to make me love you mor(f fondly, 
knowing that you stood in gieatei need of my love,” answered his 
wife quietly. 

” Yes, i believe you are noble enough for any sacrifice,” he said, 
gazing at her with a searching look, a look of the deepest love and 
keenest pain, a look that told of anguish surpassing the common 
woes of humanity. ‘ Y'es, 1 believe it is within the compass of a 
woman’s nature to love a human wreck like me, or even to love a 
creature stained with blackest sin. There is no limit to the sublimity 
of a woman’s love.” 

His wife was kneeling by his couch, her head leaning against his 
pillow. There were times when she could find no words of com- I 
fort, when she could only comfort him with the light touch other 
lips upon his brow, her sympathy, her presence, her hand laid gently 
upon his. 

‘‘ 1 love to hear you talk of your 3^outh,” she said one day, when ) 
he had been talking of his life at Marlborough, and at home — the dull * 
old parsonage— the house-mother, with her carefulness about many \ 
things, the father chewing the cud of somebody else’s sermon in a \ 
shabby little den of a study, reeking of tobacco, a sermon to be ^ 
diibbled out slowly next morning, in a style of elocution, or non- ' 
elocution, happily almost extinct. i 

” Tell me about your life in Paris,” she went on, encouraging him ) 
to forget his present pains in those old memories; ‘‘it must have ' 
been full of interest.” ’ 

” It was a life of grinding toil and gnawing anxiety,” he an- 
swered impatiently. ‘‘ There is not a detail that could interest you. ” 

” Everything in your past history inlerests me, Julian. I know 
how hard you worked in Paris. 1 saw' your desk, the place w'here 
you sat night after night, the lamp that lighted you. Mr. Blumen- 
lein lias altered nothing in your rooms.” 

“ Vastly civil of him,” muttered Wyllard, as if revolting against ; 
•nntTonage from the merchant ot toys and small-gear. 

“ But, howevei hard you worked, you must have, had some asso- 
ciations with the outer world,” pursued Dora. ‘‘ You must have J 
felt the fever and the excitement ot that time. Y"ou must have been 
interested in the men who governed France.” 

*‘ 1 was interested in the stocks that w'ent up and down, and in 
the men who governed France, so far as their conduct influenced ‘ 
the Stock Exchange. A man who is running a race, neck or noth- ^ 
ing, a race that means life or death, has no time to think of any- 
thing outside the race-course. The outside w^orld has no existence j 
lor him.” - 

‘‘ And you knew nothing ot the master-spirits of the Empire, the 
men of science, the writers, the painters?” 

“My child, how innocent you are. The men who write books ^ 
and paint pictures have no more direct influence upon an epoch than I 
. the tailors who build coats and the milliners who make gowns. ^ 
The master- spirits are the politicians and financiers. Those are the ? 
rulers of their age. All the rest are servants.” 4 

Bothwell had shown himself deeply moved by the affliction that ^ 


wyllai^d’s weird. 18 ^ 

had fallen on bis cousin’s - husband. Every feeling of ill-will 
vanished in a brealli before the face of that supreme misfortune— a 
life smitten to the dust. Eothwell was too generous-hearted to re- 
member that the master of Penmorval had not been altogether kind 
in the past. His only thought wag how he could help — were it by 
ever so little— to lighten Julian AVyllard’s burden. He was all the 
more sympathetic when he found that the sufferer had thought of 
him and of his interests even in the hour of calamity, while the 
blow that crushed him was still a new thing. 

“ It was more than good of you to consider my happiness at such 
a time,” said Bothwell, when Dora had told him of her husband’s 
conversation with Edward Heathcote. 

“ My dear Bothwell, my wife’s interests are my own ; and.l knew 
that she was keenly interested in your happiness. Heathcote has 
not found out very much about the girl who was killed;- but he has 
found out just enough to dispel his suspicions about you, and he 
withdraws all opposition to your marriage with Hilda. Now, it i& 
my earnest desiie to see you happily married before 1 am called 
away; and as life is always uncertain— trebly uncertain for a man 
in my condition — the sooner you are married the better.” 

“1 shall not plead for delay,” said Bothwell, “if 1 can win 
Hilda’s consent to an early marriage. But 1 hope, my dear Wyl- 
lard, that you may live to see our children growing up.” 

- “ That is to hope for the indefinite prolongation of an incurable 
disease, Bothwell, and is hardly a kind wish ou your part. All yoiiL 
have to do is to hurry on this marriage.” 

“ Unfortunately the house 1 have pitched upon will want three or 
four months’ work before it can be habitable.” 

“ What does that matter? You can live at Penmorval till your 
house is ready. There is room for half a dozen families in this 
rambling old place. There will be no one here to interfere with 
your privacy. You may be almost as much alone as in your own 
home, and Hilda’s presence in the housii will help to cheer m^ poor 
wife. Hurry ou your marriage, Bothwell, while Heathcote is in the 
humor to acccept you. Don’t be hindered by any absurd consider- 
ation about houses. Secure your good foitune while you can.” 

He spoke with an almost feverish impatience, the fretfulness of a 
sick man who can not bear the slightest opposition to his will. 

“ My dear Julian, you may be sure that Bothwell will be only too. 
glad to act on jmur advice,” said his wite, soothingly. 

“ Let him do so, then, and don’t let him talk about houses,” re- 
torted Julian. 

Bothwell was to meet his betrothed next day at Trevenna, where 
she was to go with Fraulein Meyersteiu to inspect the old-fashioned 
cottage wiiich her lover wanted to turn into a commodious nouse. 
There could not be a better opportunity for pleading his cause. 

He rode across country, and arrived in time to receive Hilda and 
her chaperon, who had posted Irom Launceston to Trevenna. It 
•was a delicious autumn day, and after the cottage had been inspected 
and approved, the lovers w^andered about the wild crest of TintageL 
utterly happy in each other’s company, while that discreet spinster^ 
Miss Meyerstein, sjjt on a grassy bank in the valley below, absorbed 
in a strip of soft f don knitting, intended to form part and parcel 


190 wyllard’s- weird. 

of a counterpane, wliicli s^reat work bad been in progress for tbe 
past .ten years. 

Both well was tbe bearer of a letter from Dora, entreating Hilda 
to go to ber at tbe Manor, and stay there until Heathcote's' return. 
Botbwell was to stay at Trevenna meanwhile and Fet tbe builders 
at work upon his improvements. Tbe old cottage and tbe laud 
about it bad been secured on a lease for three lives, Both well being 
one, Hilda another, and one of tbe twins tbe third. Botbwell 
lioped to be able to buy tbe place lon^; before any of these lives gave 
out. 

You and 1 have so much to arrange and talk about ” (wrote Mrs. 
Wyllard). “ Your furniture, your linen, your trousseau. 1 venture 
to think 1 am your nearest friend, and tbe person you would be 
most likely to consult in these matters. Y"our presence will com- 
fort me, dear, and binder me from dwelling too exclusively on my 
great trouble. Julian too, will be glad to have you in tbe bouse, and 
to bear your songs sometimes of an evening. He has bis good days 
and bis bad days, poor darling, and there are limes when be is 
cheerful and likes company. Do you come to me at once, Hilda. 
1 am sure you must be tired of Dawlisb by this time. It is a very 
nice little place, but I can imagine a limit to ils attractions; and the 
season is rather late for your favorite diversion of swimming. You 
shall be free to return to tbe Spaniards w^ben your brother comes 
back to England, but in tbe meantime 1 am sure 1 want you more 
than Miss Meyerstein, w^bo has those all-absorbing twins to occupy 
her cares and thoughts. I shall expect you tbe day alter to-morrow, 
by the afternoon train. 1 shall send a carriage to meet you. Yours, 
lovingly, Dora MYli^ard.’' 

What could Hilda say to such an invitation from one who bad 
been to her as an elder sister, and whom she loved as fondly as 
ever sister was loved? She wrote to Dora at the hotel wheie they 
lunched and took tea, and gave her letter for Both well to carry. 

“Y^ou are going to Penmorval,” he said. 

“ Yes, I am going there the day after to-morrow.’^ 

And 1 am to be banished. 1 am to stay here and see that my 
plans are carried out properly. 1 dare say my cousin thinks that it 1 
were to stay at Penmorval while you are there, 1 should forget all 
tbe serious business of life, lapse into a rapturous idiocy of love. 
YVell, 1 am loo happy to complain. 1 shall watch every brick that 
is laid, every timber that is sawn. Y"ou shall not have a badly baked 
brick or a plank of green wood in your bouse. 1 shall think of tbe 
plans night and day, dream of them — leap out of my sleep in tbe 
dead of tbe night to make some improvement.’' 

** If you chop and change too much you will have dear to pav,*’ 
said Miss Meyerstein; aud then she launched into a long story about 
a German grand, duke, with an unpronounceable oame, who built 
himself a summer palace which cost three limes as much as he in- 
tended, because of bis serene highness’s artistic temperament, which 
bad led him into continual tampering with the plans. 

Kever before in bis life had Botbwell felt bn )pier than on that 
breezy September day, pottering about around tbi old cottage on tbe 


wyllakd’s weird. 


191 

liill side, planning the house and gardens of the future— the Study, 
the drawing-room, the ingle nook in the dining-room, the little en- 
irance-hall which would hardly be more than a lobby, the closets 
and clever contrivances, and shelves and cozy nooks, which were to 
make this house ditterent from all other houses — at least in the eye 
of its possessor —the quaint old lattices which were to be retained m 
all their primitive simplicity, and still quainter casements which 
were to be added— here an oriel and there a bow — an early English 
chimney-stack on one side and a distinctly Flemish porch on the 
other. Bothwell could draw well enough to show the builder what 
he wanted done. He had his pocket-book full of sketches for chim- 
neys, pediments, doors and windows, and ornamental ventilators. 

“ One would think you were going to build a town,’’ said the 
practical Fraulein. 

Never had Bothwell been happier than he felt as he rode across 
the moors in the fading daylight, thinking of the day that was over. 
What a simple, domestic day it had been— so homely, so tranquil,, 
so sweet, ending with the cozy tea-drinking in the parlor at the inn, 
Hilda presiding at the tea-tray, and as self possessed as if she and 
Bothwell had b^een married for ten years. The time of tremors and 
agitations was passed. They were secure in each other’s love, 
secure in the consent and approval of those who loved them. 
Henceforward their lives were to drift calmly on a summer* sea. 

How different was this newer and purer love of his from the old 
passion, with its alternations of fever and remorse. How different 
his simple-minded sweetheart of to-dav — gentle, unselhsh, conscien- 
tious, religious — from the woman who had been all exaction and 
caprice; insatiable in her desire for admiration, self indulgent, luxu- 
rious, caring hot a jot how the world outside her own boudoir' went 
on, who suffered, or who was glad, provided her wishes were grati- 
fied and her vanity fed. 

It was dinner lime when Bothwell arrived at Penmorval, and the 
dinner hour was of all seasons the most melancholy, now that the 
master of the house was a helpless invalid in the upper floor, per- 
haps never again to enter that stately dining-room, where the butlei'^ 
insisted upon serving Botiiwell’s dinner in just as slow and ceremo- 
nial a manner as if family and guests had been assembled in full 
force. 

Vainly did Both well plead against this ceremony. ^ ' 

“ 1 wish you would ask them to cook me a chop, Stodden,” he 
said, “ a chop and a potato would be ample. 1 hate a long dinner 
at any time, but most especially when 1 am to eat it alonA You 
need not take so much trouble as you do about me. ’ ’ 

But Stodden ascribed all such speeches to overweening modesty 
on Mr. Grahame s part. The poor young man knew that he was in 
somewise an interloper, and he did not wish to give trouble. It was 
a proper teelipg on his part, and Stodden was resolved that he 
should not be a loser by his modesty. Stodden gave him an even 
liandsomer dinner on the following day, and when remonstrated 
with smiled the smile of incredulity. 

“ Lor, sir, you know you like a good dinner,” he said. ” You 
mayn’t wish to give troulhe, but you must like a good dinner. We 
all like a good dinner. It’s human nature.” 


192 


AVYLLARD'S WEIRD. 


After this Bothwell telt that remonstrance was useless. 

Mrs. Wyllard dined with her invalid husband. She rarely lett 
Mm except when he was sleeping under the intluence of morphia, 
or when he asked to be alone. There were hours in his long nnd 
weary day in which even his wife’s presence seemed a burden to 
Mm, and when he preferred to fight the battle in solitude. 

Upon this particular evening of Bothwell’s return from Trevenna 
his cousin joined him at the dinner table, an unexpected pleasure^ 

1 want to hear all the news, Bothwell,” she said. ” Julian is 
asleep, and 1 have half an hour free.” 

Bothwell told his news gladly, gayly. 

“ She is coming the day after to-morrow,” he said, “ and 1 am to 
be banished, like Romeo. But I am not afraid of Romeo’svill luck.' 
You won’t give my Juliet a sleeping potion and bury her alive while 
1 am away, will you? I have taken two rooms in a cottage at Tre- 
veiina, with an old goody who is to do for me. That wull be ever 
so much cheaper than the inn; and you know that in my position I 
ought td be economical.” 

” You ought not to make yourself uncomfortable for the sake of 
a few pounds.” 

” Ah, that is your spendthrift’s argument, lie never can under- 
stand that he ought to save a few pounds, and so he dif^s a pauper, 
while the man who has a proper respect for pounds— and pence, 
even — blossoms into a millionaire. 1 shall be very comfortable with 
my goody. I shall be out all day, superintending the builder. 1 
shall live" upon chops and porter, and I shall sleep like a top every 
night, in a dear little bedroom smelling of lavender. My goody is 
clean to a fault. t:?he cast ah evil eye at my boots as t went up- 
stairs. All the articles of furniture in her rooms are veiled with 
crochet work, as if the wood were too precious to be exposed to the 
light. But how grave you are looking, Dora. Has Wylhird been 
any worse to-day?” 

” No, he has been much the same— a sad monotony of suffering. 
It was of you 1 was thinking, Bothwell. 1 saw some news in the 
county paper which 1 know will grieve you.” 

” There has been no accident between" Launceston and Dawdish, 
has there?” gasped Bothwell, starting up from his chair; ‘‘ the train 
got back all right — ” 

” You foolish boy! If there had been an accident, how do you 
suppose 1 could hear of it?” exclaimed his cousin, smiling at his 
vehemence. ” How like a lo\ier to imagine that any ill news must 
needs be about your betrothed, though you only left her three hours 
ago.. No, Bothwell, my bad news concerns an old friend of yours, 
General Harborough. ’ ’ 

” What of General Harborough?” asked Bothwell, anxiously. 

” The announcement of his death is in the county paper.” 

” His death? Impossible' Why, 1 met him less than ten days 
ago. He seemed hale and hearty as ever.” 

' ” He caught a severe cold at the funeral of a friend, and died of 

bronchitis. Poor Bothwell! I can sympathize with your sorrow 
for so stanch a friend. I have often heard you say how good he 
was to you in India.” 

Dora had heard of General Harborough only as an Indian friend 


193 


wyllard’s weird. 

of her cousin's. She knew of Lady Valeria's existence, and that 
was all. No rumor of Bothwell's flirlatioii with that lady had ever 
reached her ears. She did not know that Bothwell’s frequent jour- 
neys to Plymouth had been on Lady Valeria’s account; that his 
mysterious journeys to London had been made in her interests 
— troublesome journeys to interview Jew money-lenders, to renew 
bills and tide over difficulties. 

And now Valeria was a widow, and would have been able to exact 
the fulfillmeih of old vows, breathed under tropical stars, far away 
in that Eastern land which they had both loved. She would have 
been able to claim him as her slave if he had not boldly broken his 
fetters the other day." 

“ Thank God 1 delayed no longer,” he said to himself; “thank 
God I got my release before this happened.” 

And then he thought sadly, affectionately, of his old friend; and 
he remembered with thankfulness that last meeting— that farewell 
grasp of the good man's hand, which he had keen able to return as 
honestly as it was given. 

“ Why did 1 ever sin against him?” he asked himsell. “ What an 
arrant snerdc 1 must have been.” 

“ You will go to General Hai borough’s funeral, J suppose?” said 
Dora presently. 

“ Yes, of course 1 must be at the funeral. When does it take 
place?” 

“ To-morrow.” 

“ Yes, 1 should go without doubt. 1 shall join the procession at 
the cemetery. As I am not invited there will be no need for me to 
go to the house. ” 

“ I suppose not. The poor widow will feel the blow terribly, no 
doubt.” 

“ Yes, 1 have no doubt she will be sorry.” 

This w^as not a lie. Bothwell thought that even Valeria could not 
fail to feel some touch of sorrow for the loss of that chivalrous 
friend and benefactor, the man who had given so much, and had 
received so poor a return for his gifts. There would be the anguish 
of a guilty conscience; even if there were no other form of sorrow. 

“ But, as 1 suppose she is elderly too, perhaps she will not sur- 
vive him very Ions,” pursued Dora, infinitely compassionate for the 
woes of a broken-hearted widow. 

“ Lady Valeria elderly!” exclaimed Bothwell. “ She is not 
thirty.” 

“What, was your good General Harborough so foolish as to 
marry a girl?” 

“ Ves. It was the only foolishness of his life that 1 have ever 
heard of; and he was so good to the woman he married that he 
might be pardoned for his folly.” 

“ 1 hope she was fond of him, and worthy of him?” 

Bothwell did not enter upon the question, and his reticence about 
Lady Valeria Harborough struck Dora as altogether at variance with 
his natural fr<Tnkness. And then she remembered that unexplained 
entanglement with a married w^oman — and it tlashefl upon her-that 
Ltldy Valeria might be the heroine of that story He had spoken 
of General Harborough, but never of General Harborough’s wife. 

7 


194 


wyllakd’s aveird. 


There had been a studied reserve upon that subject. And now 
Dora discovered that Valeria Harborough was a young woman. 

The invitation to the funeral came by next morning’s post — a for- 
mal invitation sent by a fashionable firm of undertakers— and Both- 
well had no excuse for sta3dug away from the Villa, where the 
mourners were to assemble at three o’clock in the afternoon. He 
had no fear that Lady Valeria would be present upon such an occa- 
sion; but there was just the possibility that she mi^t send for him 
when she knew he was in the house. She had always been reckless 
of conventionalities, carrying matters with such a high hand as to 
defy slander. 

His heart sunk within him as he approached the classic portico of 
the Villa. Deepest regret for his dead benefactor, deepest remorse 
for having wronged him, weighed down his heart as he entered the 
darkened house, where rooms built for brightness and gayety looketl 
all the more gloomy in the day of mourning. The hall was hung 
with black, and in the midst stood the plain oak coffin draped with 
the colors which the general had fought for fifty years before amid 
the wild hills of Atgluinistan. Crosses and wreaths of purest white 
were heaped upon the cofiin, and the atmosphere of the darkened 
hall was heavy with the perfume of stephanotis and tuberose, 
those two flowers which the general had always associated with his 
wife, who rarely decorated herself or her rooms with any other 
exotics. 

Bothwell stood amid the mourning crowd with heavily-beating 
heart. There was no summons from Lady Valeria, and he heard 
someone near him telling someone else that hei grief was terrible, a 
stonj^ si’ent grief, which alarmed her people and her medical at- 
tendant. She would see no one. Lady Lostwithiel had come all 
the w^a}^ from Badeu, wheie the poor dear earl was doctoring his 
gout, but Lady Valeria had onl}^ consented to see her mother tor 
lialf an hour, and poor Lady Lostwithiel had not even been asked 
to stay at the Villa. She had been obliged to put up at an hotel, 
which was a cruelty, as every one knew that the Lostwithiels were 
as poor as church mice. 

“Perhaps Lady Valeria has not forgireh her family for having 
sold her,” said the second speaker, in the same confidential voice. 

“ Sold her. ISothing of the kind. She adored the old general.” 

“You had better tell that to— another regiment,” muttered his 
friend, as Bothwell moved away from the group. 

It was past five before the funeral was over, and there was no 
train for Bodmin till seven, so Bothwell strolled into the coffee-room 
of the Duke of Cornwall and ordered a cup of tea. 

While he was drinking it he w^as joined by a ^mung officer who 
had been at the fuiipral, and whom Bothwell had often met at flar- 
borough Villa— quite a youth, beardless, and infantine of aspect, 
but with a keen desire to appear older than his ^^ears. lie affected 
to have steeped himself in iniquity, to have dishonored more house- 
holds and fleeced more tradesmen than any man indlie service, lie 
hinted that his father had thrust him out of doors, and that his 
mother had died of a broken heart on his account, lie was a youth 
who loved gossip, and who went about among all the wives and" 
spinsters of Plymouth, the dowagers and old ladies, disseminating 


195 


wyllakd’s weird. 

tittle-tattle. Hardly anything he said was true, hardly anybody be- 
lieved him; but people liked to hear him talk all the same. There 
was a piquancy in slander uttered by those coral lips, which had 
not long finished with the corals ot babyhood. 

“ My dear Bothwell, what a tragedy!’’ he exclaimed, as he seated 
himself in front of a brandy and soda. 

“ It is a sad loss for every one,” Bothwell answered, tritely. 

“ Sad loss; but, my dear fellow, what a scandal! Everybody in 
Plymouth is talking about it. There has been hardly anything else 
spoken of at any of the dinners 1 have been at during the last ten 
days.” 

“ 1 thought old maids’ lea-parties were your usual form,” relorled 
Bothwell, with a sneer. “ What is your last mare’s nest, Falkner? 
The general’s death, or the general’s funeral?” 

“The circumstances that preceded the dear old man’s death — 
that’s the scandal. Surely you must have heard — ” 

“ Consider that 1 have been buried among the Cornish moors, 
and have heard nothing.” 

” By Jove! Do you mean to say that .you don’t know there was 
a dreadful row one night at the Villa? Sir George Mildmay in- 
sulted Lady Valeria— called her some foul name, accused her of 
carrying on with a young man. The general came up at the mo; 
ment, and smashed his head. Sir George went all over the place 
next day abusing my lady — sent the general a summons to the 
police-court, where the whole story must have come out in extensoy 
as those newspaper fellows say. A very ugly story it is— betting 
transactions, borrowed money, and a lover in the background. An 
uncommonly queer story, my dear Grahame. Plymouth was on 
the quimve fdr a tremendous sctindal. You know what these gar- 
rison and dockyard towns are, and a man in the general’s' position is 
a mark for scandal. The thing was altogether too awful, and the 
poor old general wouldn’t face it. He wouldn’t face it, old chap, 
and he died.” 

‘‘You mean to say that he — ” 

” 1 mean to say nothing. There was no inquest. The poor old 
man kept his bed for a week, and the cause of death was called 
bronchitis, but there are people 1 know who have their own idea 
about the general’s death, and a very ugly idea it is.” 

“Your friends have a 'penchant for ugly ideas, Falkner,” an- 
swered Bothwell, coolly. 

He did not believe a word of the subaltern’s story, and yet the 
thought of it troubled him as he sat alone in his corner of the 
smoking carriage, trying to solace himself with a pipe, trying to 
think only ot the girl he loved and ot his brightening prospects. 

The mention ot a lover, how much or how little did it mean? 
Could it be true that General Harborough had knocked a man down 
in his own house? Such an act on the part ot the most chivalrous 
of men must have been the result of extraordinary provocation. 
Onl.y a deliberate insult to a woman could excuse such an outrage 
against the laws ot hospitality. He remembered that Lady Valeria 
had talked ot borrowing money from Sir George Mildma}', and 
what could she expect but insult if she placed herself iinaer obliga- 
tions to a notorious rouL He had warned her of the folly 6t such 


196 


wyllard’s weird. 

a course. He had urged her to confide in her husband. And now 
that good anrt loyal friend and protector was gone, and this last act 
of his wife’s had left her to face the \%orld with a tainted reputation. 

He told himself that there must be some grain of truth in the 
subaltern’s story. Tlie scandal too nearly touched actual facts 
which were known to Both well to be altogether false. 

“ God help her if her good name is at the mercy of such a scoun- 
drel as iMildrnay,” thought Botliwell. 

He left Penmorval in a dog-cart next morning, carrying his port- 
manteau and a box of books at the back. He was to have the use 
ol the dog-cart and Glencoe while he stayed at Trevenna, so that he 
should not feel himself altogether banished. He could ride over to 
Penmorval occasionally. 

“ You must not come too often, mind,” said Dora when she was 
bidding him good-by. “Indeed^ on retieclion, 1 think you had 
better only come when you are invited. Y^ou may have no discre- 
tion otherwise. It will not do for 3^11 to be really living here and 
only pretending to live at Trevanna.” 

” It is unkind of 3 'ou to suggest that a man must he an utter im- 
becile because he is in love, Dora,” remonstrated Bothwell. “Of 
course 1 understand that I am sent away as a sacrifice to the pro- 
])rietieR. I am banislied in order that Mrs. Grund}^ may be satis- 
fied— that same Mrs. Griind}^ wiio was willing to suspect me of 
murder on the very smallest provocation. Iso, my dear Dora, I am 
not going to be tnsublesome. I will only come when 1 have your 
liermission. I suppose I may come next Sunday?” 

“ Oh, Botlnvell, this is Wednesda}’; Sunday is mvy near.” 

“It will seem ages off to me. Y'es, 1 shall certainly come on 
Sunday. Even servants are allow^ed to go and see 'heir ‘friends on 
the Sabbath. Is your cousin less than a hireling that he should be 
denied? 1 shall ride over in time for breakfak on Sunday nioin- 
ing, ” 

“ Y^ou will have to get up at six o’clock.” 

“ What of that? 1 have had to get up at four, and even at half- 
past three, tor cub-hunting.” 

He arrived at Trevenna early in the afternoon, settled himself 
comfortably in his cottage lodgings, and arranged his books in a 
corner of the neat tittle parlor, wu'th its superabundant crochet-work 
and crockery, which ornaments tion he artfully persuaded his land- 
lad 3 ’' to put awa}^ in a cupboard during his residence. 

“ .Men are so clumsy,” he pleaded. “ They always spoil things.” 

Goody confessed that the male sex was inherently awkward, and 
had an incapacity to appreciate crochet antimacassars. She sighed 
as she denuded her best parlor of its beauties. “The place\iew 
look so bare,” she said. 

Bothwell gave up his afternoon to a long interview with, the 
builder, vyho was a smart young man, and as honest as he was 
smart. The old collage was thoroughl}' overhauled and inspected, 
with a view to the carrying out of those extensions and improve- 
ruent.s which Bothw<dl had planned for himself, and for which be 
hud rnade dravrings which were very creditable to an amateur 
at(*hitect. His experience as an engineer stood him in good stead. 

He modified his plans somewhat on the advice of the smart young 


197 


wyllard’s weird. 

builder, but the alteratious were to be carried out very much upon 
his own original lines — the builder’s modifications were chiefly in 
detail. And then they had to fight out the question of time. The 
builder asked for six months; Both well would only grant four. 
Finally, time, cost — everything was agreed upon, Bothwell having 
given up his original idea of being his own builder and buying his 
own materials, and the contract was to be taken to Camelford next 
day to be put into legal form. For three hundred and fifty pounds 
the old cottage was to be transformed into a comfortable house. 
The two little parlors and the kitchen were to be made into three 
studies or bookrooms, communicating with each other. The^e were 
for Bothwell and his pupils to work in. A new drawing-room and 
dining room were to be built, and over these two good bedrooms. 

“ 1 shall add a billiard-room and a large nursery over it Jater on, 
when 1 am beginning to make my fortune,” thought Bothwell. ” I 
know we shall want a billiard-room, and 1 hope w^e shall want a 
nursery.” 

The builder had gone home to his young wife and baby, in a 
cheerful red brick cottage of his own construction, and Bothwell 
w^as pacing the old neglected garden alone in the autumn sunset, 
when he looked up suddenly and saw a dark figure standing in the 
narrow path betweeen him and the rosy western sky. 

It was the tall, slender figure of a woman, robed in black and 
thickly veiled. That black figure seemed to shut out all tiie warmth 
and beaut}^ of the glowing west. Bothwell’s heart grew cold within 
him at sight of it. 

He had not a moment’s doubt or hesitation, though the woman’s 
face was hardly visible under the thick crape veil. 

“ Valeria,” he exclaimed. 

‘‘Yes, it is Valeria.” 

” How, in the name of all that’s reasonab’e, did you come here?” 

“ A pair of post-horses brought me. That was easy enough when 
1 knew where to find you. 1 heard at Bodmin Road Station that 
you were here. You had been seen to drive by, and you told the 
station-master where you were going.” 


CHAPTER XX. 

TWO WOMEN. 

They stood face to face in the evening light; they two who had 
once loved each other, who had once been wont to meet with smiles 
and gladness, hand clasped in hand— they stood pale and silent, each 
waiting for the other to speak. 

” How could you do bo mad a thing as to come here, Lady Va- 
leria?” Bothwell asked at last. 

His heart was beating passionately, not with love, but with anger. 
He was indignant at the unfeminine feeling shown b}^ this pursnit 
of him, this persecution ol a man who had frankly owned a new 
and wi°er attachment. 

” It is not the first madness I have been guilty of for your sake,” 
she answered. ‘‘ There was the madness of loving you in the first 


198 


wyllard’s weird. 

instance, and the still ^s^reater madness of being constant to you, 
even when 1 suspected that you had grown tired of me. But it was 
not weariness ot me that influenced you, was it, Both well? It was 
the false position which grew irksome; the falsehood toward that 
good, brave man. It was that which made you desert me, was it 
not, Bothwell? That is all over now. My bondage is over. I am 
my own mistress, answerable to no one for my conduct, and I am 
here to remind you of old vows made three years ago beside the 
fountain at Simla.” 

” Those old vows have been canceled. Lady Yaleria,” said Both- 
well, coldly. ‘‘ Surely you have not forgotten our last parting, and 
tiie old love-token which you threw away.” 

”1 was beside myself with anger,” she answered, hurriedly. 
” You could not have meant all 3^011 said that day, Bothwell. Y^ou 
wanted to escape from a false position ; you could not guess that my 
release was to come so soon, that in less than a month 1 should be 
free, that in a year 1 might be your wife.” 

” Stop,” he cried, ‘‘ for pity’s sake; not another word. I am en- 
gaged to marry another woman — bound heart and soul to another. 
1 have no other purpose in life but to win her and to be happy with 
her.” 

Lad}^ Valeria looked at him in silence for some moments. She 
had thrown back her veil when she first addressed him. Her face 
was almost as white as the crape border of her widow’s bonnet, but 
on each cheek there was one spot of hectic— a spot that looked like 
flame — and in her eyes there was the light of furious anger. 

” It is true, then! You are in love with another woman?” 

” it is true. 1 am in love with her, and I am bound to her by all 
those feelings which are sweetest and most sacred in the mind of a 
man — by gratitude, by love, by respect, by adoration of her noble 
qualities, i am to be married to her almost immediatel}^. You 
can understand, therefore. Lady Yaleria, that as 1 hope always to 
be your friend, your champion and defender, if need of champion- 
ship should ever arise, 1 am justified in remonstrating with you for 
your folly in coming here alone, upon the day after your husband’s 
funeral.” 

” My chanopion, my friend,” she repeated mockingly. ‘‘What 
amazing generosit}^ what sublime chivalry! You ofl:er me your 
friendship — you who swore to be my husband, to give me the devo- 
tion of your life, whenever it pleased God to set me free from an 
unnatural union. You who were bound to me by the most sacred 
vows!” 

‘‘You released me from those vows when you threw awa}'^ the 
love-token. 1 asked 3^011 tor my freedom, and you told me that 1 
was free. You can not recall that release. Lady Valeria.” 

”1 released 3 'ou from a false position. That is over now; and 
your alleged motive — 3 "our compunction — your remorse of con- 
science — must be over too.” 

Bothwell was silent. He had said all that could be said. He 
stood before Lady Valeria motionless, dumb, ready lo bear the brunt 
of her anger and submit meekly to her reproaches, w^ere they ever 
so ungenerous. 

‘‘Do you know what you have done for me?” she demanded, 


199 


wyllard’s weird. 

passionately. '‘Do you know wbat you have cost me — you who 
pretended to be my slave, who pretended to worship me, and whose 
tiimsy passion could nol stand the wear and tear of three short yearn? 
You have blighted my life; you have ruined my good name.” 

“ That last charge can not be true, Lady Valeria. You were much 
ton careful of your reputation —you knew much too well how to 
keep your slave at a proper distance,” answered Both well, with a 
touch of scorn. 

” But 1 did not know how to hide my love for you. There w'ere 
eyes keen enough to read that. Do you know that my husband as- 
saulted Sir George Mildmay in his own house on my account?” 

“Ah, then, the story was true?” muttered Both well. 

“ You have heard about it, 1 see. Did you hear the nature of the 
insult which provoked that punishment?” 

“No.” 

“ It was the mention of your name — your name flung in my face 
like an accusation — cast at me as if my position were notorious — as 
if all society knew that there had been an intrigue between us.” 

“ Sir George is a blackguard, and no act of his would surprise 
me; but Sir George is not society. You need not be unhappy about 
any speech of his. If you want me to call him out, I am quite will- 
ing to go over to Blankenburg and ask him to meet me there.” 

“ You know that such an act as that would intensify the scandal. 
No, Bothwell, there is only one way in which you can set me right 
a year hence, when my year of widowhood is over, when 1 can 
marry again without disrespect to my husband’s memory. That is 
the only way of setting me right with the world, Bothwell; and it 
is the only way of setting me right in my own self-esteem.” 

“ My dear Lady Valeria, 1 wonder that you have not learned to 
understand society better, you who are essentially a woman of soci- 
ety. Do you think the world would applaud you or respect you for 
making a very poor marriage — for uniting yourself to a man with- 
out pursuit, or means, or position? You, who with beauty, rank, 
and wealth, might marry almost any one jou pleased. Tbe world 
does not smile on such marriages. Lady Valeria. The world wor- 
ships the star which rises higher in the social firmament— -not the 
star which bends earthward. Y'ou have your future before you, 
free and unfettered. Y’ou have wealth, which in this age means 
power. You can have nothing to regret in a foolish love of the 
past, wiiich drooped and died for want of a congenial atmosphere.” 

“ Is that your last word upon this subject?” asked Valeria, look- 
ing at him intently with those angry eyes. 

They were beautiful, even in anger, those violet-dark eyes, but 
the light in them was a diabolical light, as of an evil spirit. 

“ My very last.” 

“ Then we will say no more, and we will enter upon a new phase 
of our existence— the period of friendship. Perhaps you will be 
kind enough to take me back to the inn where 1 left my carriage, 
and order some tea for me?” 

“ 1 shall be very happy%” said Bothwell, quietly, and they walked 
oft toward the inn, which was less than half a mile from the cottage. 

“ May 1 ask what you were doing in that deserted garden?” in- 
quired Lady Valeria. 


^00 


wyllard’s weird. 


“ 1 have been planning the improvement of my future home/' 

“ Indeed. You are goiug to li^e in that desol ale spot, with noth- 
ing but the sea and the sky to look at?” 

” The sea and the sky, and some of the finest coast scenery in 
England — the sands, and the rocks, and the wild hills. Don’t 3 "ou 
think that ought to be enough for any man to look at?” 

“ For a Hermit, no doubt, not for a man. A man should have 
the city and the Forum. Ah, Bothwell, if you were my husband 
there w'ould be no limit to my ambition for you. And you are going 
to vegetate in a place like this?” 

” 1 am goiug to work here, and to be more useful in my genera- 
tion, 1 hope. I shall help to make the soldiers of the future,” anti 
then he told Lady Valeria his plans. 

” What a drudgery,” she exclaimed, ” what a wearisome, mo- 
notonous round, from year’s end to year’s end. 1 would as soon be 
a horse in a mill. Oh, Bothwell, the very idea is an absurdity. 
You a school -master I You!” 

She measured him from head to foot with a scornful laugh, try- 
ing to humiliate him, to make him ashamed of Ids modest hopes. 
But she failed utterly in this endeavor. Bothwell was too happy to 
be easily put out of conceit with his prospects. Even that oppro- 
brious name of ” school-master ” had no terrors for him. 

” Tell me about my friend’s last illness,” he said, presently, 
gravely, gently, trying to bring Lady Valeria to a more womanly 
frame of mind. 

He thought that she must surely have some touch of tenderness, 
some regret lor the husband who had been so good and loyal in his 
treatment of her; the man to whom she had been as an indulged 
and idolized daughter, rather than as a wife; escaping all wifely 
servitude, seeking her own pleasure in all things, allowed to live 
her own life. 

Lady Valeria told Bothwell about those last sad days, how the 
strong frame had been burned up with fever, the bioad chest racked 
with i)ain, how patiently weakness and suffering had been endured. 

” He was a biave, good man,” she said; ” noble, unselfish to the 
last. His parting words were full of love and generosity. ‘ Y"ou 
will marry again,’ he said. ‘ 1 liave left no fetter upon your 
life. JMy latest prayer will be for your ha^: pin ess.’ ” 

I wish we had both been better worthy of his regard,” said 
Bothwell, gloomil 3 % 

He wondered at the supreme egotism of a nature which could 
be so little moved by this good man’s death. 

” That is past wishing now. Nothing that you or 1 can do will 
cancel the ]>ast. No, Bothwell,” she said, looking at him steadily, 
” nothing will cancel the past.” 

They wcie at the hotel by this time. Bothwell ordered tea, then 
went out to the stables to order the carriage. He left Lady Valeria 
to take her tea in mournful solitude, while he walked up and down 
in front of the hotel, waiting to hand her into her carriage He was 
indignant with her for the unwomanly step she had taken. He 
w ondered that he could ever have cared tor such a woman — a 
woman w^ho could assume the dignified airs of an empress, and j^et 
stoop to tollies at which a dress maker’s apprentice might have hesi- 


wyllaed’s weird. 201 

tated — a creature of caprice and impulse, governed by no higher law 
than her own whim. 

He walked up and down in the autumn darkness, listening to the 
murmur of the waves, seeing the stars shine out, pale and far apart 
in the calm gray — glancing now and then at the window of the 
sitting-room, where Lady Valeria was sealed in the glow of the fire, 
a somber figure in densest black 

She came out after the carriage had been waiting some time. 

“Oh! you are there, are you?” she exclaimed, seeing Bothwell 
by the carriage door. “ I thought you had gone.” 

“ I waited to hand you to your carriage.” - 

“You are vastly polite. 1 was hardly prepared for so much at- 
tention.” 

“ There is a train from Bodmin Road few minutes after nine. You 
will be in time for it if your coachman drives pretty fast. ” 

“ The road is not the safest in the world for fast driving; but you 
can tell him to catch the train, if you please. Good-night.” 

Bothwell told the coachman not to waste his time when he had a 
level road ; and as the habit of Cornish coachmen is ro spring their 
horses up hill and canter them gayly down hill, there was every 
chance that Lady Valeria would be in time. 

The carriage drove off, and Bothwell went back to his cottage 
lodgings, wondering whether he had seen the last of the lady. Her 
coming had introduced a new element of doubt and fear into his 
mind. A woman capable of such foolishness 'might stop at no des- 
perate act. A.11 the serenity of Both well’s sky had become clouded 
over. 

He turned his face in the direction of Penmorval, and looked 
across the hills, through the cool, dark night. Oh, what a different 
nature that was, the nature of the girl who was to be his wife; 
wliat rest, what comfort in the very thought of her love. 

“ God bless you, my darling,” lie said "to himself. “ 1 send my 
love and blessing to you, dearest, over the quiet hills, under the 
silent stars.” 


CHAPTER XXL 

ROSESONAGKAVE. 

While Bothwell was watching the builder’s men upon the green 
hill beside the Atlantic, Edward Heathcote was slowly, patiently, 
laboriously following the thin thread of circumstantial evidence 
which was to lead him to the solution of Leonie Lemarque’s fate. 
He had taken this task upon himself in purest chivalry, an uncon- 
genial duty, entered upon in unselfish devotion to the woman he 
loved. He pursued it now with a passionate zest, a morbid interest, 
which was a new phase in his character. Never had he followed 
the doublings of some cunning old fox across the moors and heaths 
of his native land with such intensity as he followed that unknown 
murderer of Leonie Lemarqus. That she had been murdered — de- 
liberately sacrificed — as the one witness of a past crime, was now 
liis conviction. Be had ceased to waver between two opinions. 
Leonie had gone to meet the murderer of her aunt, and she had 


302 wyllaed’s weird. 

fallen a victim to the folly of the dying woman who had sent her to 
seek pity and protection from such a source. 

Who was that murderer, and tpr what reason had he carried his 
helpless prey to a remote Cornish valley? Why should he not have 
tried to get rid of her in the great wilderness of London, where the 
crime would have excited much less curiosity, and would have 
been less likely to be discovered? 

Entering deliberately into the thoughts of the assassin, following 
out tlie workings of his mind, his fears, his calculations, his artitices, 
it seemed to Ueathcote that a man familiar with the line between 
Plymouth and Penzance might scheme out iust such a murder as 
that which had been committed; might fix on the very spot at which 
the deed was to be done, knowing that at that particular point the 
palisades had been removed, and the viaduct left unprotected, lie 
would believe that the fall of a strange girl at such a spot would be 
accepted as purely accidental. He would trust to his own clever- 
ness for disconnecting himself from the catastrophe; he would im- 
agine that in the hurry and confusion following such an event it 
would be impossible for the murderer to be identified. Who was to 
select from all the travelers in a train that one traveler whose arm 
had thrust the girl to her doom? A little cleverness and watchful- 
ness on his part would render such identification impossible. A man 
provided with a railway key could get from one carriage to anoth<li* 
easily enough in the surprise and horror of the moments following 
immediately upon the girl’s fall. Few men are quite masters of 
their senses during such moments: and all eyes would be turned to- 
ward the gorge at the bottom of which the girl was lying: every- 
one’s thought would be as to whether she was living or dead. Very 
easy in such a moment for an active man to pass from one carriage to 
the other, unobserved by any creature on or about the train. 

Mr. Blumenlein’s remark about the hidden door in the alcove had 
impressed Heathcote strongly; the door opening into a dark and ob- 
scure court; a narrow passage piercing from one street to another, 
and with only a side door here and there leading into a yard, and 
here and there the grated windows of a warehouse or an oflice; an 
alley in which, after business hours, there were hardly any signs ot 
human habitation. Heathcote inspected this passage after he left 
the merchant’s office. He followed it to its outlet into a narrow 
street which led him into another and busier street parallel with the 
Hue Lafilte. A curious fancy possessed him, and he made his way, 
l)y narrow and obscure streets, behind the Grand Opera and the 
Grand Hotel, into the Hue Lafitte. By this way, which was some- 
what circuitous, and which led for the most part through shabby 
streets, he avoided the Boulevard altogether. 

That speech of Mr. Blumenlein’s haunted him like the refrain of 
a song. The words repeated themselves over and over again in his 
mind with maddening reiteration. 

“ Wyllard, the speculator, was one man; but there was another 
man ot whom the world knew nothiug, and who went out and came 
in between dusk and dawn by that side door in the court.” 

It was a bold speculation on the part of the German merchant, 
and might have very little foundation in reality, yet the fact that 
such a side door had been made at Julian AY yllard’s expense implied 


WYLLARD S AYEIRD. 


203 


a desire for independent es^ress and ingress, a tvish to bo free from 
the curiosity of porters and porters’ wives, to go out and come in 
unobserved, to have no bomment made upon the hours he kept. 

For such a man as Wyhard had appeared in the eyes of the world, 
for a hard-hearted plodder, a money-making machine, this easy 
access to the Boulevard and I he pleasures of a Parisian midnight 
would have been useless. 

But for a man who led a double life, who was the hard calcula- 
ting man of business by day, and who at night look his revenge for 
the toil and dullness of the money-grubber’s career in the wildest 
dissipations of the greatest city in the world; tor such a man the 
facility afforded by the side door in the court would be invaluable. 

Had Wyllard been such a man? Had Wyllard lived a double life 
during the ten years of his Parisian existence? 

Such a thing seemed to the last degree unlikely. Difficult to sup- 
pose that he could have given his nights to pleasure and folly, he 
who had succeeded as a foreigner in a field where so many had failed 
— he who had penetrated the innermost labyrinths of the financial 
world, and had always been a winner in the hazardous game where 
the reckless and the idle must inevitably end as losers —lie who had 
the flair for successful enterprises w^hich had been spoken of to 
Heathcote as little short of inspiration, he who had been respected 
by the cleverest men on the Paris Bourse, honored and revered as 
the hardest worker and keenest thinker among them all. No, such 
a man could not have given his nights to pleasure— could not have 
rioted among foolish revelers betwixt midnight and morning — to go 
back to his den in the early dawn, and to begin a new day, half 
rested, bemused by wine and folly. 

No, such a man could not have habitually lived the Boulevard 
life, could not have been the associate of fools and light women. He 
could not so have lived without the fact of his folly being known 
to everybody in Paris. And Edward Heathcote had heard his rival 
praised for the sobriety and steadiness of his life, wondered at as a 
miracle of industry and good conduct, a man of one idea and one 
ambition. He had heard Julian Wyllard so spoken of by men who 
knew their Paris. He had heard his character discussed and sifted, 
years ago, at the time of his marriage with Dora Dalmaine. 

That Julian W3dhud could have lived a wild and rowdy life was 
impossible; but that theory of a double life did not necessarily im- 
ply dissipation or folly. What of a man who concealed from the 
world his inner life, the life of passion and emotion, who abandoned 
himself in secretness and obscurity to his all-absoibing love fora 
woman whom he dared not acknowledge before society? Such a 
man might verily be said to lead a double life— and Julian Wyllard 
might have been such a man. 

IJeathcote looked at his watch when he entered the Rue Lafitte. 
He had walked the distance in a quarter of an hour. 

He had made a note of the number of the house in which Marie 
Prevol had liv:ed. It was 117, about half-way between the Boule- 
vard and Lafayette. It was to this house that he now directed his 
steps, impelled by the desire to see the rooms in which the beautiful 
young actress had lived — it it were possible to see them. In this 
dead season, when so many of the residents of Paris were absent, 


204 


wyllarb’s weirb. 

there was just the chance that some good-natured concierge — and 
the concierge is always amenable to tlie gentle inducement of a five- 
franc piece— might consent to admit a respectable-looking stranger 
to a view of the third floor of number 117. 

The house was a quiet reputable-looking house enough — one of 
the older and smaller houses of the street, untouched by the hand of 
improvement, and of somewhat shabby appearance externally. 

The person who opened the door, and who occupied a little den 
at the back ot the entrance Hall, was a woman of about forty, cleaner 
and fresher-looking than the generality of portresses and caretakers. 
8he was decently attired in a smart cotton gown, which fitted her 
buxom figure to perfection. Her face \\as clean, and her cap spot- 
less. She had a pleasant, open countenance, and Heathcote felt that 
he might beliere anything she told him. 

He asked if there were any apartments to be let in the house. 

No, the portress told him. There were only old-established 
families living there. There had not been a floor to let for three 
years. 

“ Indeed! Not the third floor, for example?” 

“No. But why did monsieur inquire especially about the third 
floor?” the portress asked, locking at him keenl 3 ^ with her bright, 
black eyes. 

“ 1 confess to having a particular curiosity about the third floor,” 
replied Heathcote, judging that frankness would serve him best with 
this outspoken matron, “ and if by any chance the family were ab- 
sent — ” 

“ Monsieur would like to indulge a morbid curiosity,” interrupted 
the portress; “ to see the rooms which were occupied by a beautiful 
woman who was murdered. There was a lime when 1 had twenty, 
forty, fifty such applications in a day, w^hen all the idlers in Paris 
came here to spy about and to question. If the murder had been 
done in one of those very rooms instead of in the wood, 1 should 
have made my fortune. As it was, people stared and pried and 
touched things, as if the very curtains and sofa cushions had been 
steeped in blood. But that was ten years ago. 1 wonder that mon- 
sieur should feel any curiosity after all those years.” 

“ Y"ou were living in this house, ten 5 "ears ago, at the time of the 
murder?” questioned Heathcote, eagerly. 

“ Y"es, monsieur, and tor three years before that 1 was with Mad- 
ame Georges from the day she first entered this house to the day 
she was carried out of it in her coffin. 1 am Barbe Leroux, born 
Girot. If you have heard of the murder of Marie Prevol you must 
have heard of Barbe Girot, her servant. I was one of the chief 
witnesses before the Juge d' Instruction,'' concluded the portress, 
with obvious pride. 

“ Madame, 1 have read your evidence,” replied Heathcote. “ 1 
am deeply interested in the history of that terrible murder, and 1 
rejoice in having met a lady w^ho can, if she pleases, help me to un- 
ravel a mystery which baffled the police.” 

“ The police!” exclaimed Mine. Leroux, contemptuously. “ The 
police are a parcel of no great things, or they would have found the 
man who killed my mistress and Monsieur de Maucroix in a week.” 

“ Provided that he stopped in Paris to be found. But it seems 


wyllard’s weird. 205 

evideDt that he got away from Paris, and instantly, or he would 
have been taken red-handed.” 

” I have reason to know that he was in Paris long alter the mur- 
der,” said Barbe, decisively. 

” What reason? Pray consider, madame, that 1 am brought to 
this house by no idle curiosity, no morbid love ot the horrible. It 
is my mission to discover the murderer of Marie Prevoh Give me 
your confidence, 1 entreat, madame. You who loved your mistress 
must desire to see her assassin punished.” 

Barbe Leroux shrugged her shoulders with an air of doubt. 

” 1 don’t quite know that, monsieur. Yes, 1 loved ni}^ mistress, 
but 1 pity her murderer. Come, we can not talk in this passage all 
day. Will you walk into my room, monsieur, and seat yourself 
tor a little while; and then, if you are anxious to see the rooms in 
which that poor lady lived, it may perhaps be managed.” 

‘‘ You are very good,” said Heathcote, slipping a Napoleon in 
Barbe Leroux ’s broad palm. 

Bad it been halt a Napoleon she would have considered herself re- 
paid for ordinary civility, bat the larger coin secured extraordinary 
devotion. She would, in her own phrase, have thrown herself into 
the fire for this gentlemanly stranger, whose hat and coat w^ere so 
decidedly English, but who spoke almost as a Parisian. 

She ushered him into her little sitting-room, the very sanctuary 
and stronghold of her domestic life, since there was a bed in a cur- 
tained corner, while .there was a cradle sunning ilself in the fe w 
rays of light wdiich crept dowm the hollow^ cube of brick and stone 
along which the single window looked. The pot au feu w^as sim- 
mering on a handful of wood ashes in a corner of the hearth; and 
Madame Leroux’s plethoric work-basket show^ed that she had been 
lately occupied in the repair of a blue linen blouse. 

“Leroux is one of the porters at the Central Markets,” she ex- 
plained. “ It is a hard Hie, and the pay is small ; but there are per- 
quisites, and between us we contrive to live and to put aw^ay a little 
for the daughter there,” with a nod and a smile in the direction of 
the cradle, whence came the rhythmical breathing of a fat baby. 

“ The only one?” inquired Heathcote. 

“Yes, monsieur.” 

“ And you have lived in this house for thirteen years, Madame 
Leroux?” 

“ Nearer fourteen, monsieur, when all is counted. 1 was a di’esser 
at the Porte Saini Martin, when Mademoiselle Prevol first appeared 
there. It was a w^retched life— bad pay, late hours, hard w’ork. 1 
caught cold from going to and fro on the winter nights, thinly clad; 
for i had an old mother to support in those days, and 1 could not 
afford warm clothing. I had a cough which tore me to pieces, but 
1 dared not give up ni}^ employment, and my fear w’as for being sent 
away for bad health. 1 had not a friend in Paris to help me. Then 
it was, monsieur, that Mademoiselle Prevol took pity on me. She 
spoke about me to a doctor wdio used to come behind the scenes and 
was on friendly terms with all the actors and actresses. She asked 
him to prescribe for me; but he told her that medicines would be 
ot no use in my case. 1 was young and had a good constitution. 
All that was needed lor my cure was warmth and comfort. 1 was 


206 


wyllakd’s weikd.. 


not to go out of doors after dark, or in bad weather, if 1 wanted to 
cure m 3 ^self. 1 almost laughed at the doctor for his advice. 1 lived 
in the Boulevard de la Chapelle, and had to walk to and fro, in all 
weathers, good or bad. It was Januaiy at this time, and the snow 
was on the ground.” 

” It was tiien that Mademoiselle Prevol took you into her service?” 
speculated Heathcote. 

” Yes, monsieur, There are not many ladies in her position who 
would have cared what became of a drudge like me. *She was new 
to the theater, and she had just become the rage on account of lu r 
beauty. The papers had all been full of her praises. Cigars, hats, 
fans, shoes, were called after her. The public applauded"^her song.': 
and dances madly every night. Admirers were waiting in crowds at 
the stage-door to see tier leave the theater in the shabby little forty- 
sous that used t6 take her home. She dared not walk for fear of 
being followed and mobbed. She was young enough to have had 
her head turned by all this fuss; but she seemed to care hardly any- 
thing about it. One honest man’s love would be worth all this rub- 
bish, she said to me once when 1 asked her if she was not proud of 
being the rage with all Paris. 1 was proud of dressing her, and 1 used 
to take the greatest care in everything 1 did for her, and I Suppose it 
was this that made her so good to me. She knew that I loved her, 
and the poor dresser’s love was honest love. In a word, monsieur, 
she asked me it 1 would like to be her servant. She was going to 
leave her mother’s loflgiugs, where she was not comfortable, and to 
take an apartment of her own. 1 might have to work hard, perhaps, 
she told me, and I should have to be careful and saving, as she had 
only her salary to live on. She was not lii'^e those ladies who drove 
their carriages and lived in the Bois yonder —but she would feed 
me and lodge me well, and she would give me as much money as 1 
was getting at the theater, without either food or lodging.” 

‘‘ Natural l 3 ^ you accepted?” 

” With delight, monsieur. And three days after 1 came to this 
house. My young mistress had taken the third floor for five years. 
The landlord put the rooms in order for her, she furnished them very 
modestly, rather sparely, partly out of her little savings since she 
had been at the theater, partly on credit. She was to pay so man}'^ 
francs a week to the upholsterer till all was paid for. She had no 
extravagant tastes, no craving tor finery or luxuiious living. If 
you had seen her rooms in those days 5 ^ou might have thought them 
the rooms of a nun -all things so simple, so neat, so pure.” 

‘‘ But there came a change afterward, I suppose?” 

‘‘ There came a time when Monsieur Georges loaded her with pres- 
ents, and the apartment changed gradually under his influence. 
Ka.sy-chairs, velvet-covered tables, a book-case, an escritoire, satin 
curtains, rich carpets, pictures, china, hot-house ffowers. He 
showered his gifts upon her; but I knew that she would have been 
l)eter pleased to live in her own simple way. Sin; had a horror of 
seeming like those other ladies of the theater, with theii tine houses 
and fine clothes. She spent very little mone}^ on herself; she lived 
almost as plainly as a workman’s wife.” 

” Was she called Madame Georges A lien she first came to this 
house?” 


207 


wyllaed’s weird. 

No, monsieur, she did not even know his name in those days. 
She only knew that she had a mysterious admirer, who came to the 
theater every night, who used to sit in a dark corner of a small 
private box close to the stage, who never showed himself to the 
audience, and who was always alone. This was all she knew of 
Monsieur Georges in those days/’ 

“ Do you know how their acquaintance advanced from this 
point?” 

” No, monsieur. 1 hardly know anything of the progress of their 
attachment. There were letters—gifts — which came to the house. 
And 1 know that in the spring nights of that first year my mistress 
used to walk home from the theater escorted by Monsieur Georges. 
But he never entered our apartment till after madame’s return from 
England, where she went during the summer vacation. She had 
been very silent about her strange admirer. She had told me noth- 
ing, but she had shed many tears on his account. That was a 
secret which she could not hide from me. She had spent many 
wakeful nights, breathed many sighs. When she told me she was 
going to England, 1 thought ail was over. She had fought hard to 
be true to herself, poor gin; she had struggled against her fate, but 
this man’s love had conquered her.” 

” She dill not tell you that siie was going away tn be married?” 

” No, monsieur; but when she came back after a fortnight’s ab- 
sence, she showed me her wedding-ring, and she told me that she 
was to be called Madame Georges henceforward. This 1 took to 
mean that Monsieur Georges had married her while in England, and 
1 believe it still. He loved her too w'ell to degrade her by making 
her his mistress. ’ ’ 

“He loved her well enough to murder her,” said Ileathcote. 
‘‘ 1 suppose that is about the highest degree of intensity in passion.” 

” He loved her as women are not often loved, monsieur,” replied 
Barbe, with conviction. ” 1 saw enough to know that from first 
to last he adored her'; that the jealousy which devoured him later, 
the jealousy which made him act like a madman many times in my 
hearing, was the madness of intense love. • 1 have listened outside 
the door, trembling for my mistress’s safety, ready to give the alarm 
to the house, to rush in and rescue her from his violence, and then 
the storm was lidlcd by her swmet words, her gentleness, and he be- 
came like a penitent child. Yes, monsieur, beloved her as few men 
love.” 

” If this were so, why did he keep her in such a dubious, discredit- 
able position? Why did he not introduce her to the world as his 
wife?” 

” 1 can not tell. There must have been reasons for his secrecy. 
He seldom came to this house before nightfall.. He never showed 
himself anywhere with madame till after the theater.” 

” Since he was rich enough to be lavish, why did he not remove 
her from the stage?” 

” That was one of the causes of unhappiness tow^ard the last, 
monsieur, it was his wish that she should leave the theater, and 
she refused. 1 believe it was at this time she became acquainted 
with Monsieur de Maucroix.” 


208 


wyllakd's aveibd. 


“ Yo[i stated before the Juqe d' Instruction that you believed the 
acquaintance between your mistress and Monsieur de Maucroix to 
have been an innocent acquaintance. Is that still your belief?'’ 

“It is my conviction, monsieur. I never doubted my dear 
mistress’s honor, though 1 doubted her wisdom in allowing herself 
to think about Monsieur de Maucroix. It must be pleaded in her 
excuse that he was one of the most fascinating men in Paris. At 
least that is wdiat 1 have heaid people say of him. 1 know that he 
was young, handsome, and remarkably elegant in his appearance.” 

“ And now tell me how^ you come to know that Georges remained 
in Paris after the murder? Did you ever see him?” 

“ Yes, mcnsieur. It is rather a long story. If J were not afraid 
of tiring you—” Madame Leroux began deprecatingly. 

“ Y'ou will not tire me. 1 want to hear every detail, however in- 
sigmtlcant.” 

“ Then, monsieur, you must know that in consequence of ma- 
dame's kindness and of the lavish generosity of Monsieur Georges, 
and also by reason of a good many gifts from Monsieur de Maucroix, 
who threw about his money with full hands, 1 was very comfortably 
off at the time of madame’s sad death. I had buried my poor dead 
mother two years before, and 1 had been able to save almost every 
penny of my wages. 1 felt, therefore, independent of service. The 
terra would have to be paid by Madame Lemaripie, who inherited 
all her daughter’s property, and as she had a horror of the moms in 
which her poor daughter had lived, and could not bear v*) be alone 
in them for an hour, she asked me to stay till the end of the qiiar- 
ter. Then, as 1 told you, people came in crowds to see the rooms, 
and as 1 had power to show them, or to refuse to show them, just 
as 1 pleased, 1 need not tell yuu that i made a good deal of money 
in this way. 1 did not make a trade in showing the rooms, mon- 
sieur. 1 never asked any one for money, but on the other hand 1 
did not refuse it when it was ottered to me. This continued for 
some weeks; then came the sale. All the handsome articles of 
furniture, all the pictures and ornaments, fetched high prices. They 
were bought b}^ fashionable ])eople as souvenirs of the beautiful 
Marie Prevol. But the plainer furniture, the things which my 
mistress had paid for out of her own earnings, were sold for very 
little, and these 1 bought. 1 had conferred with the landlord, and 
he had agreed to retain me as his tenant. With the furniture which 
i bought at the sale, and with other things which 1 picked up 
cheaply among the second-hand dealers, 1 contrived to make the 
rooms very comfortable as furnished lodgings, and from that time 
to this 1 have carried them on with reasonable profit. 'Phree years 
later 1 was able to take the fourth floor, and two years after that, 
on the second floor falling vacant, I ventured to become tenant for 
that also. There remains only the first floor, which is let to an old 
lady of ninety, and if Providence prospers Ivcroux and me, we 
ought to be able to take to the first floor b}' the time the old lady 
dies.” 

“ You will then be lessees of the whole house; a bold speculation, 
madame, but one which with your, prudent habits will doubtless 
succeed. But, to return to this man Georges, whom you saw in 
Palis after the murder.” 


■vvyllakd’s weird. 


209 


“ 1 was accustomed to go every week to the Cemetery of P6re 
Lachaise, monsieur, to look at my dear mistress’s grave, and to lay 
my humble offering oh flowers upon the plain marble slab which 
had been placed there at Madame Lemarque’s expense. It bore for 
inscription only one word— Marie. Madame Lemarque dared not 
describe her daughter as a wife — she would not record her name as 
a spinster. Marie was enough. For the first month after her burial 
1 found the slab covered with flowers, wreaths, crosses, bouquets 
of the costliest flowers that can be bought in Paris. I noticed that 
among the variety of flowers there was one wreath frequently re- 
newed, and always thesarhe — a wreathof Marechal JSiel roses — and 
I knew that these had been her favorite flowers — the flowers she al- 
ways wore, and had about. her in her rooms. 1 had often heard her 
call the Marechal Niel the king of roses. Months passed, ahd on my 
weekly visit with my poor little bunch of violets, or snow^drops, or 
jonquils, 1 found always the wreath of yellow roses. All through 
the winter, when all other tokens had ceased to adorn the grave — 
when the beautiful actress was beginning to be forgotten— the yel- 
low roses were always renewed. 1 felt that this could be done only 
by someone who had devotedly loved her who lay under that marble 
slab. For her admirers of the theater her death had been a nine 
days’ wonder. They had loaded her grave with flowers in the first 
enthusiasm of their reirret, and then had gone away and forgotten 
all about her, but the wreath of yellow roses, renewed again and 
again, all through the long dead winter, w'as the gift of a steadfast 
love, a grief which did not diminish with time. 1 questioned the 
people at the gates, but they knew nothing of the mysterious hand 
which laid those flowers on my mistress’s grave. 1 hoped 1 should 
someday surprise the visitor who brought them; but although 1 
altered the da3^s of my visits, never going two weeks running on 
the same day, I seemed ho nearer finding out that mysterious 
mourner. At last, early in the February after my mistress’s death, 
1 resolved upon going to the cemetery every day; and remaining 
there, in view of the grave, as long as my stock of patience would 
allow me. 1 spent three or four hours there for six days running, 
till my heart and my feet were alike weary. But I had seen no one; 
the roses had not been renewed. The seventh day was a Saturday, 
the da}^ which 1 always devoted to cleaning the apartment, wfljich 
was now' in the occupation of an elderly gentleman and his wife. 
I was not able to leave the house till late in the afternoon. The 
day had been foggy, and the fog had thickened by the time 1 left 
the omnibus, which took me to the Rue de la Roquette. At the 
gates of the cemeteiy it w'as so dark that if 1 had not been familiar 
with the paths which led to my mistress’s grave, 1 should hardly 
have been able to find my' way to the spot. The grave is in a nar- 
row side-path, midway belween two of the principal walks; and as 
1 turned tlie corner betw'een two large and lofty monuments, 1 saw 
a man standing in the middle of the path in front of Marie PrevoTs 
grave. A talTfigure, in a furred overcoat — a figure I knew well. 1 
had not an instant’s doubt that the murderer of my mistress stood 
there before me, looking at his victim’s grave.” 

‘'Did you accost him?” 

“ Alas, no. He was not more than a dozen yards from the spot 


210 


wyllaed’s weird. 


where 1 stood, and 1 quickened my footsteps, intending to speak to 
him but at the sound of those footsteps he looked round, saw a fig- 
ure approaching through the fog, and hurried off in the opposite 
direction. I ran after him, but he had reached the other end of the 
path before 1 could overtake him, and when I got there it was in 
vain that I looked for any trace of him either riffht or left of the 
pathway. He had disappeared in the fog, which was thicker at 
this end of the path, as it was on lower ground. My mistress’s 
grave was on the slope of the hill, and the fog was less dense. 

“ 1 went back to the grave and looked at the flowers on the slab. 
A wreath of yellow roses, fresh from the hot-house where they had 
been grown, lay on the marble, surrounding that one word ' Marie.’ ” 
Are you sure that the man you saw was Georges?” 

” Perfectly sure. I knew his figure; 1 knew his walk. 1 could 
not be mistaken in him. And who else was there in Paris who 
would come week after week, in all weathers, to lay tlie roses my 
mistress loved upon her grave. Many had admired lier on the 
stage, but only two men had been allowed to love her, to know 
an 3 dhing of her in her private life. Of those two one was the mur- 
dered man. Monsieur de Maucroix; the other was the murderer, 
Georges.” 

“ Did you find the flowers renewed after this day, or did the mur- 
derer take alarm and forego his tribute to the dead?” 

” The roses were renewed week after week for more than a year 
after that foggy Saturday afternoon; but 1 never again saw the 
person who laid them there. 1 had, indeed, no desire to see him 
again. 1 had satisfied m\'self as to his identit 3 ^ I did not want to 
betray him to the police. The shedding of his blood might have 
avenged my dear mistress’s death, but it could not have restored 
her to life. It could have been no consolation to her in purgatory 
to know that this man, whom she had once loved, who had loved 
her only too well, was to die on the scaftold for her sake. 1 hated 
him as the murderer of my mistress, but 1 pitied him even in the 
midst of my hatred. 1 pitied him for the reality of his love.” 

” You say tlie flowers appeared on the grave for more than a year 
after that February afternoon?” said Heathcote. “ Did the tribute 
tall off gradually? Was wreath renewed at longer and longer 
intervals till it ceased a4tcrgether, or did the offering stop suddenly?” 

” Suddenly. In the March of the second year after madahie’s 
death 1 found a faded wreath on my weekly visit, and that faded 
wreath has never b(‘cn replaced.” 

” That would be in March, 1874?” 

“ Yes, monsieur.” 

“ Y^ou never saw Georges again, cither in the cemetery or any- 
where else?” 

” Never, monsieur.” 

” 1 have been told that he was a French Canadian. Have you 
any knowledge as to his country or to his family history?” 

” None, monsieur. I always supposed him to be a Frenchman, 1 
never heard him speak in any other language.” 

” Did he speak like a Parisian?” 

“ No, monsieur, lie did not speak exactly like the people about 


wtllard’s weird. 211 

here, or the actors at the Porte Saint Martin. 1 used to think Hint 
he was a provincial.” 

“ Did you hear from your. mistress what part oi England she had 
visited V” 

1 heard, monsieur, but have forgotten. The names of places 
were strange to me — such queer names— but 1 knew it was a place 
in which there were lakes and mountains. ” 

“ Was it in Scotland or Ireland?”’ 

“No, monsieur, it was in England. I am sure of that. And 
now, it monsieur would like to see the third floor.” 

Heathcote said he was most anxious to do so, and he follow^ed 
Mine. Leroux upstairs, to a landing out of which the door of the 
apartment opened. The rooms were small and low, but well lighted, 
and with a balcony looking out on the street. The little salon w^as 
neatly furnished, with those very cJiairs and tables which Marie 
Prevol had bought out of her first economies as an actress. The 
things w^ere meager and shabby after the wear and tear of years, but 
the perfect neatness and cleanliness of everything made amends. 
Barbe Leroux was one of those admirable managers wLo by sheer 
industry and good taste can make much out of little. 

There was a tiny dining-room opening out of the salon, with a 
window overlooking chimneys and backs of houses, and this win- 
dow had been filled with painted glass in the time of M. Georges. 
All the other elegances and luxuries with which he had embellished 
the cozy little rooms had been disposed of at the sale ot Marie 
Prevol’s effects. The^-e had been Venetian mirrors and girandoles 
on the w^alls of the dining-room, Barbe explained. 

“Madame used to light all the w^ax candles when she came in 
from the theater, There weie candles on the supper-table with 
rose colored shades. There were fruits and flowers always. Every- 
thing was made to look pretty in honor of Monsieur Georges— and 
there had to be some delicate little dish for supper, and choicest 
wine. Monsieur was not a man who cared much what he eat or drank ; 
but madame wished that everything should be nicel}^ arranged, that 
the supper table should look as inviting as at the Cafe de Paris or 
at the Maison d'Or,” 

The bedroom opened out of the salon. There was a dressing- 
looiji between that and the little back room in which Barbe had 
slept when she was in Mile. Prevol’s service. On her occasional 
visits, Leonie Lemarque had occupied a truckle bed in Barbe’s 
room. 

“How was it that Leonie Lemarque in all her visits never hap- 
pened to see Monsieur Georges,” inquired Heathcote, when he bad 
looked at all the rooms, peopling them in his imagination with the 
figures of the lovely actress and her lover. 

“ Madame took gcod care to prevent that. She told me that Mon- 
sieur Georges hated children, and that the little one was to be kept 
out ot his way.” 

“Did he never spend his mornings here? Was he only here at 
night?” 

“ Only at night. It was for that reason Madame Lemarque used 
to call him the night-bird. 1 think she was angry because she was 
never allowed to see him— never invited to supper. Monsieur 


212 


avyllard's weird. 


Georges used to take a cup of coffee early in the morning, and left 
the house before most people were up. A.s early as five o clock in 
summer; never latei than halt-past six in winter. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

WEDDING GARMENTS. 

riii.DA's presence at Penmorval was full of comfort and solace 
for Dora Wyllard. She had known Hilda all her life, liacl-seen her 
grow from childhood to womanhood, had loved her with a sisterly 
love, trusting her as she trusted no one else. Hilda had been only 
a child at the time of Dora’s engagement to Edward Ileathcote, yet. 
even at eleven j^ears of age, Hilda’s tender heart had been full of 
sympathy for her brother when that engagement was broken off, 
and when Dora became the wife of another man. She had been 
angry, with vehement, childish anger. That Dora should like any 
man better than him who, in the fond eyes of the younger sister, 
seemed the prince and pattern of fine gentlemen! Tliat Dora could, 
like Hamlet's widow, turn from Hyperion to Satyr? 

Hilda at eleven was precocious in her knowledge of books, and 
very self-opinionated in her judgment of people. She told her 
brother that she would never speak to Dora ajiain, that she would 
run a mile to avoid even seeing her: and, then, a few months after 
Dora’s marriage, finding that her brother had forgiven that great 
wrong with all his heart, Hilda melted one day suddenly at meet- 
ing Mrs. Wyllard on the moor, and fell into her old friend’s arms. 

‘‘ I have tiied to hate you foi being so wicked to my biothei,” 
she sobbed, as Dora bent over her and kissed her. 

“ Your brother forgave me a year ago, Hilda,” said Dora. ” Why 
should 3 ^ou be less generous than he?” 

” Because 1 love him better than he loved himself,” cried Hilda, 
in her vehement way; ” because I know his value better than he 
does. Oh Dora, how could you like anyone else better than Ed- 
ward?” 

” You must not ask me that, my darling. Those things can not 
be explained. Pate willed it so.” 

” And I suppose you are very happy in your grand house?” said 
Hilda, sullenly. 

” I am very happy with the husband 1 love, Hilda. The grand 
house makes no difllerence. And now w^e are going to be good 
friends, aren’t wx*, dear, and we are never going to talk of the past? 
How you have growm. Hilda!” 

“ Out of all my frocks,” answered Hilda, glancing contemptu- 
ously at her ankles. ‘‘It is perfectly degrading never to have a 
frock long enough for one— and never to have one’s waist in the 
right place. The dressmaker sa 3 ^s 1 have no waist yet. Dress 
makers are so insulting to girls of my age. I think 1 shall positively 
trample upon my dressmaker w^hen 1 am grown up, to revenge my- 
self for ail 1 have suffered from the tribe.” 

‘‘ My Hilda, what an old-fashioned ]m^s you have growm.” 

“ How can 1 help being old-fashioned? 1 never see any young 


wyllakd’s weird. 213 

people. Edward never comes to the Spaniards now. You have 
driven him away.'' 

“ Hilda, if we are to be friends—" 

. " Well, 1 won’t say it again; but you have, 3 "Ou know. It is 

awfully dull at home. 1 suppose 1 may say that?" 

“ 1 hear you have a new governess. I hope you like her?" 

“ You needn't hope (hat, for you know gills never do. She is a 
poor sheep of a thing, and i don't suppose 1 hate her quite so much 
as some girls hate their governesses. But she is dreadfully dreary. 
She makes her own gowns, and of an evening her needle goes 
stitch, stitch, stitch, in time to the ticking of the clock, while I 
practice my scales. 1 don't know which 1 hate most, the clock, 
or the piano, or the needle.'' 

" Poor Hilda, you must spend half your time with me in future. 
1 shall call to-morrow and ask your father’s permission to have 
you at Penmorval as often as 1 like." 

"He won't refuse, if there's any consistency in him," replied 
Hilda, “ for he is always grumbling about the noise 1 make and 
about inv sliding down the balusters. How did he go down stairs 1 
wonder, at my agc^? Those broad balusters at the Spaniards must 
have been made for sliding. But fathers are so inconsistent,'' con- 
cluded Hilda. “ I shouldn't wonder if he wouldn't rather have me 
and my noise at home than allow me to be happy at Penmorval." 

"Let us hope ihat he will be reasonable," said Dora, smiling, 
" even though he is a father." 

Mrs. Wyliard called at the Spaniards next day, and was not 
too graciousl}^ received by Mr. Heathcote — old Squire Heathcote, 
as he was called in that part of the wmrld. He was a testy inva- 
lid, a sufferer from some chronic complaint so obscure in its com- 
plication as to seem only an excuse for ill temper— and he' had not 
forgiven Dora for jilting his son. He softened gradually, however, 
melted by the sweetness of her manner, and by memories of days 
that were gone, when he bad admired her mother, and had been 
ruthlessly cut out b}^ her father. The eyes that looked at him 
seemed to be the eyes that he had loved in his youth. 

" If you care to be troubled with the girl 1 ought to be grateful 
for any kindness you may show her," said the squire. " She makes 
more noise tiian a regiment, and she is alwaj^s disobeying her 
governess, or neglecting her lessons, and then 1 am called upon to 
interfere. 1 wouldn't niiiui if they would fight it out between them 
and leave me in peace." 

" You shall be left in peace very often, if you. will allow me to 
have Hilda for my little companion at Penmorval," said Dora-. 
" And I promise you that her education shall not be allogether neg- 
lected while she is with me." 

" If you can teach her manners, 1 shall be eternally your debtor," 
said the squiie. "I would much rather a young 'woman should 
know how to behave herself in society than that she should read 
.^schylus or square the circle." 

Thus it came about tb.at Hilda spent a great deal of her life at 
Penmorval, w^here the sheep-like governess escorted her, or whence 
she fetched her with unfailing patience, grateful exceedingly when 


214 


wyllard’s weird. 


she was rewarded willi a cup of fca in Mrs. Wyllard’s pretty 
ilrawing-rooni'or in the yew-tree arbor. 

And thus, in the seven happy years of Dora Wyllard’s married 
life— her apprenticeshij). as she had caRed it playfully last June, 
when the anniversary of her marriage came round — Hilda had 
been her chief cpnipanion. The girl had grown up at her side as a 
younger sister, and had been a link between Dora and Edward; 
albeit, these two saw each other but seldom, for Edward’s home 
had been in the neighborhood of Plymouth, until within the last 
two years. 

The old squire did not long survive that interview in which he 
complained of his young daughter’s hoydenish manners. He did 
not live to see the hoyden soften into a graceful, modest girl, re- 
served and silent among strangers, full of vivacity among those 
whom she loved. His elder son succeeded him in the possession ot 
the Spaniards, a bachelor and an enthusiastic sportsman. He was 
one of those ideal brothers with whom a sister can do just what she 
likes, and under his regime Hilda learned to ride to hounds, aud 
contrived to enjoy herself as much as any girl in Cornwall. She 
mourned him passionateiy when he was snatched away in the 
flower of his manhood, victim to a severe cold caught during a 
fishing tour in Connemara. 

Edward’s rule was almost as kind, but not quite so easy. He had 
narrower ideas about the rights of young ladies, especially in rela- 
tion to the hunting field. 

“ When 1 hunt you can go with me,” he said, “but 1 will not 
have you flourishing about ihz country with no one but a groom to 
look after you.” And this narrower rule deprived Hilda of many a 
day’s sport. Courtenay, the elder brother, had never missed a day 
with foxhounds or harriers, and he had allowed his sister the run of 
his stables and much latitude in all things. 

While Hilda was growing up under Mrs. Wyllard’s wing, while 
Edward Heathcote changed from bachelor to married man, and then 
to widower, Bothwell Grahame was serving his queen and country 
in the far East. He could just rtmiember having seen Hilda once as 
a child. He came back to Cornwall to find her a woman, or a girl 
on the verge of womanhood, and it was not long before he irrew to 
believe in her as the ver}’^ perfection of girlhood and womanhood in 
one— -girlhood when she was gay, and in her more serious moods 
altogether womanly. 

In those darker days under that heavy cloud which had fallen 
upon Dora Wyllard’s life, Hilda’s presence was an inestimable 
blessing. Dora was able to put aside the thought of her own great 
sorrow every now and then, while she entered with all her heart 
into the life of her young friend — the fresh young life, so full of 
hope in the future, ot earnest purpose and sweet humility. It a 
king had stooped from his throne to w^oo her, Hilda could not have 
been prouder of her royal lover than she was of Bothwell. She 
spoke ot him as one who honored her by his afteciion, and she seemed 
full of tearfulness, lest she should not be good enough for her hero. 
It never occurred to her that it was Bothwell who ought to be thank- 
ful. that it was he who had won the prize. 

There was a sweet abnegation in this girlish love which touched 


wyllaed’s WEIED. ;!Jl0 

Dora deeply, she being all unconscious of her unselfish worship of 
her husband, lier own surrender to the lover who stoJe her fiom her 
betrothed. 

Hilda was very fearful of intruding her new joys and hopes upon 
her friend’s sorrow. 

“ I ought not to chatter about our prospects, Dora, when you are 
so weighed down with care,” she said, apologetically. 

But Dora insisted upon hearing all about the new home which 
was to be made out of the old cottage. She insisted upon discuss- 
ing the trousseau and the linen closet, glass and china, and even 
hardware; albeit her own lines had fallen in a mansion where all 
these things are provided on a lavish scale, and left to the care ol a 
housekeeper, to be destroyed and renewed periodically, for the 
benefit of old established tradesmen. 

“You never had a linen-closet to look after, Dora,” said Hilda, 
pitying her friend. “ That is the worst of being so rich. There is 
no individuality in your home life. 1 mean to be a regular Dutch 
housewife, and to keep count of every table cloth in my stock. 1 
shall make and mark and mend all the house linen, and 1 shall be 
much prouder of my linen closet than of my gowns and bonnets. 
And the china closet, Dora, ought not that to be lovely? One can 
get such delicious glass and china nowadays for so little money. 1 
have looked at the Plymouth china shops, and longed to buy the 
things, before 1 was engaged; but now I can buy all the glass and 
china for our house — 1 have saved enough money out of my allow- 
ance to pay for all we want in that way.” 

“ What an independent young person you are, Hilda!” said her 
friend, laughing at her; “ but you must not spend all your money 
on cups and saucers — ” 

“And teaiDOts!” interjected Hilda, “such sweet little china tea- 
pots. I will hare one for every day in the week.” 

“ Teapots are all very well, but you will have your trousseau to 
buy. You must keep some of your money for frocks.” 

“ 1 have no end of frocks; more than enough,” protested Hilda. 
“ 1 shall bu)^ just two new gowns — my wedding gown and a tailor 
gown for riding outside coaches in the honeymoon. Bothwell pro- 
poses that we should go round the south coast as far as the Start, 
and then across country to Hart laud and home by Bude. That is to 
bo our honeymoon tour.” 

“ Very nice, and very ine-xpensive, dearest. And then you are to 
come here to live till your new home is ready.” 

“ 1 am afraid we shall be very much in your way. ” 

“ You will be a comfort to me. Hilda. Both you and Bothwell 
will be a help and comfort to me.” 

Hilda spent her evenings for the most part in the invalid’s room. 
Her sympathetic nature made it easy for her to adapt herself to the 
necessities of the sick-room. She could be very quiet, and yet she 
could be bright and gay. She could be cheerful without being 
noisy. She sung with exquisite taste, and sung the songs which 
are delightful to all hearers —songs that appeal to the hemt and 
soothe the senses. 

Julian Wyllard was particularly fond of her German ballads — 
Schubert, Mendelssohn, Jensen, old Yolks-Lieder; but, once, when 


216 


wyllard’s weird. 

she bcffan a little French song, “ Si tu savais,” he stopped her with 
a ] aiuhii motion of his distorted hand. 

“Not that, Hilda. 1 detest that song,"’ and for the first time she 
doubled the excellence of his judgment. 

“ 1 wonder you dislike it,” she began. 

“ Oh! the thing is pretty enough; but it has been so vulgarized. 
All the organs were grinding it when 1 lived in Paris.” 

“ And those organs disturbed you at your work sometimes, per- 
haps,” said Dora, seated in her accustomed place beside his pillow, 
ready to adjust his reading-lamp, to give him a new book, or to dis- 
cuss any passage he showed her. He read immensely in those long 
hours of enforced captivity, but his readmg had been chiefly on one 
particular line. He was reading the metaphysicians, from Plato and 
Aristotle to Schopenhauer and Hartmann, trying to find comfort for 
the anguish of his own individual position in the universal despond- 
ency of the modern school of philosophy. 

“ A man chained to a sick-bed ought to be able to console himself 
with the idea that the great world around him is only an idea of his 
own brain, and yet even when convinced of the unreality of all 
things there remains this one central point in the universe, the sense 
of individual pain. Such a belief might reconcile the sufterer to 
the idea of life. Ah, my Dora, if you are only a phantasm, you are 
the sweetest ghost that ever a man's brain invented to haunt and 
bless his life.” 

“ Don’t you think you might read more interesting books while 
you are ill, Julian?” suggested his wife. 

“ No, dear. These books are best, for they set me thinking upon 
abstract questions, and hinder me from brooding upon my own 
misery.” 

What could Dora say to him by way of comfort, knowing too 
well that this misery of his was without hope on eartli; knowing that 
this burden of pain which had fallen to him must be carried to the 
very end; that day by dav, and hour by hour the gradual progress 
of decay must go on; no pause, no respite— decay so slow as to be 
almost imperceptible, save on looking back at what had been? 

“ Thank God, the brain is untouched,” said Julian Wyllard, when 
his wife pitied him in his hour of pain. “ 1 should not have cared 
to sink into imbecility, to have only a dull, vague sense of my own 
individuality, like a vegetable in pain. 1 am very thankful that 
Spencer assures me the brain is sound, and is likely to outlast this 
crippled frame.” 

Both well rode over on Sunday morning as he had threatened, 
and appeared at the parish church with his cousin and Hilda, much 
to the astonishment of some of the parishioners who had suspected 
and almost condemned him. They were now veering round, and 
had begun to inform each other that Mr. Grahame had been a much- 
wronged man, and that there was evidently a great deal more in the 
mystery of the strange girl’s death than any one in Sodmin had yet 
been able to fathom. No doubt Mr. Distin, the famous criminal 
lawyer, knew all about it, and his cross-examination of Bothw^ell 
Grahame had been only a blind to throw the press and the public 
oil the right scent. The very fact of his coming all the way from 


wyllakd’s aveird. 


317 


London to attend a Cornish inquest argued an occult knowledge, u 
shadow behind the llirone. Some among Bothwell’s iale detractors 
tinted that the business involved a personage ot very high rank, 
and were disposed to transfer their suspicions to a local peer, who was 
not so popular as he might have been, having but recently refused to 
remit more than one third of his farmers’ rent, or to renew leases at 
less than halt the previous rental. 

And now Bodmin beheld Bothwell Grahame seated in the Pen- 
morval i)ew between his cousin and Hilda Heathcote, and Bodmin 
opined that his engagement to Miss Heathcote must now be a settled 
thing, since it was known that he had taken a house at Trevenna, and 
was puilding and improving there on a large scale. There were some 
who approved, and some wlio condemned; some who wondered that 
Squire Heathcote could allow his only sister to marry such a 
reprobate, others who declared that Bothwell was a high-spirited 
fellow, wdio had been a fine soldier, and would make a capital army 
coach; but these diftercnces of opinion helped to sustain conversa 
tion, which sometimes sunk to a very low ebb in Bodmin for lack of 
matter. 

It was a lovely autumn day, and Bothwell had strolled into the 
rose garden with his sweetheart, between luncheon and five o’clock 
tea, talking over their house and their future. 

“ And now, dearest, there is only one point to settle,” said Both- 
well, when they had discussed furniture and china and glass to their 
hearts’ content, and when Bothwell had given a graphic description 
of sundry Chippendale chairs and early English bureaus wdiich he 
had discovered and bargained for in cottages and farm-houses within 
twenty miles of Trevenna. “ 1 had a little talk with Wyllard before 
luncheon. He is most cordially disposed tow^ard us, and he wants to 
hurry on our marriage in order that he may be present at the cere- 
mony. He feels just able to go down to the church in a Bath chair. 
His chair could be wheeled up the aisle, and placed within sight and 
souhd of the altar, without being in anybody’s way. He says if 
we delay our marriage he may no longer have the power to do even 
this much, and for this reason he is urgent that we should man a- al 
most immediately. What do 3 '^ou say, dearest? Will you lak^ up 
your burden as a poor man’s wife? Will you be mine soon; at 
once almost. The week after next for instance?” 

“Oh, Bothwell!” 

“ Think, dear love, there is nothing to delay our marriage except 
want ot faith in each other or in ourselves. If you have any doubt 
of me, Plilda, or any doubt as to your own love tor me — ” 

“ 1 have none, Bothwell — not a shadow of doubt.” 

“ Then let us be married Tuesda}^ week. That is the day Dora 
suggested. She tells me that jmu are the most sensible girl she ever 
met with, and that you are not going to buy a wagon-load ot clothes 
in order to over-dress your part in that old, old play called ‘ Love 
in a Cottage.’ So you see there is nothing to wait for.” 

“ But 1 must have a wedding-gown, Bothwell, and a gown for 
traveling.” 

“ Then you have just a week in which to get them made, dear. 
Not an hour more.” 

There was some further discussion, but in the end Hilda yielded 


218 


wyllaed’s weird. 


to her lover’s pleading. It should be any day he liked— it should 
be 1 iiesda}^. The two gowns should be ordered next morning. 
Edward lleathcote had given Dora lull powers, and he would douli- 
less hurry home at her bidding in time (o arrange the terms of Hilda’s 
marriage settlement, and to be present at the wedding. 

Eothvvell was almost beside himself with gladness tor the rest of 
the day, but good feeling impelled him to restrain his exuberance, 
and to be grave and quiet in the presence of the patient sufferer, 
whose pale, calm face told but little of mental struggles, or bodily 
pain. The evening was spent in Julian Wyilard’s room. There was a 
gooddealof conversation, and Hilda sung some of her favorite songs, 
a sacred song of Gounod’s, “ There is a green hill far away,’' which 
Dora especially loved, and again, “ Ave Maria,” by the same com- 
poser. Both ell sat in a corner by the pretty little cottage piano, 
listening to the rich, full voice of his beloved, catching her thin 
white fingers as they strayed over the keys, ineffably happy. He 
had no thought of evenings in the years that were gone, when he 
had listened to another singer, and watched other hands, delicate, 
nervous finjxers, glittering with diamonds. The voice w^as a thinner 
voice, a somewhat reedy soprano, and those tapering fingers had 
soniething of a bird’s claws in their extreme attenuation; but he had 
thought the thin voice passing sweet in the days that were gone, and 
the hand of the siren had seemed to him perfection. 

He left Penmorval soon after daybreak next morning, to ride back 
to Trevenna. He was to return on the following Saturday, to take 
up his abode there until the wedding-day, while Hilda was to return 
to the Spaniards almost immediately, to collect her belongings, and 
make herself ready for her new life. All the business of furnishing 
could be done after the w^edding, in that interval which Mr. and 
Mrs. Grahame were to spend at Penmorval. 

Hilda was up in time to w’ateh from hei^ bedroom window while 
her lover rode away in the misty morning, but she was much too shy 
to go down-stairs and wdsh him good by. She would have (luailed 
before the awful eye of Stoddeu, the butler, had she ventured to 
show herself at such an unseemly hour, unchaperoned, unsanctioned 
by the presence of a matron. So she hid oehind her wdndow' curtain 
and watched her true knight’s departure, and did not even fling him 
a flow'er by way of love-token. 

When ho’;se and rider were out of sight, she went to her desk and 
wrote to her brother, urging him to come back without delay, ex- 
plaining and apologizing for the early date named for her wedding 
— reminding him as to her marriage settlement that she wished Both- 
well to profit as much as possible by her small independence-an al- 
together womanly letter, brimming over with love for her belrothed. 

She went home that morning, and she and Friiulein Meyerstein 
began immediately to busy themselves with preparations for the 
wedding. It w^ould naturally be the quietest of weddings, since Mr. 
AV3dlard’s condition forbade all festivity. Hilda said she would 
have the twins for her bridemaids, and no others. They were to be 
dressed exactly alike, and all in pure white, like biscuit-china 
figures; they were to have little Pompadour frocks and petticoats, 
and mob caps. There Avas a tremendous consultation that Monday 
afternoon with the chief dress-maker of Bodmin, a person of high 


WYLLABd’s WEIBD. 


319 


reputation among those steady old-fashioned people who liked to 
spend their money in their town, and who were naturally looked 
down upon by that other section of the county society which had all 
its clothes from London. The dress-maker had made Hilda’s frocks 
ever since she was a baby, and was inclined to be doleful at the idea 
of this trousseau-less entrance into matrimony -but an being put 
upon her metal she declared that the neat little white satin wedding- 
gown, and olive-cloth traveling gown should be perfection after 
their Idnd; and then came a lengthy discussion about sleeves and 
velvet waistcoat, and the all-important question of buttons was 
treated exhaustively. Miss Pittman, the dress-maker, had been told 
of Dore and of Redfern, and had lain awake of a night thinking 
of their productions; she had been shown dresses from Swan & 
Edgar; but she believed that tor the hang of a skirt or the fit of a 
sleeve she could hold her own with any house in London. And 
then she favored Hilda and the friiulein with a little lecture upon 
the righteous and uniighteous manner of making and putting in a 
Sleeve, which was eminently interesting from a professional point of 
view. 

The first three days of that week seemed to Hilda to* pass like a 
dream. She managed to maintain an outward aspect of supreme 
calmness; but her brain seemed to her m a w^hirl all the time. She 
went in and out of the house, and wandered about the gardens with- 
out knowing why; she went hither and thither, halt her lime hardly 
knowing where she was. She began one thing after another, and 
never finished anything. She was always v/aiting for Bothwell’s 
letters, which came by every post ; albeit, a third person might have 
supposed that he would find very little to write about. For Hilda 
the letters were full of interest, and she made as much haste to an- 
swer them as if she and Bothwell had been heads of parties carrying- 
on the business of the nation at a crisis. She was anxious to receive 
her brother’s answer to her letter, but when it came, the reply 
though satisfactory on some points, was not altogether agreeable. 

“ Mrs. Wyllard is quite justified in saying that 1 left the arrange- 
ments of your wedding in her hands ” (wrote Edward Heathcote). 
“You could have no kinder friend or wiser counselor, and to her de- 
cision, as to the date ot your marriage, 1 bow. But 1 regret to say 
that 1 shall not be present at the ceremony. 1 have business which 
still detains me in Paris, and 1 have other reasons which hinder my 
being a witness of your wedding. You must not suppose that this 
decision on my part arises from any unfriendly feeding to Bothwell 
Grahame, 1 have reconciled myself to his marriage with you, and 1 
shall do my utmost in the future to prove myself his friend as well 
as yours. He will find that the instructions 1 have sent as to your 
settlement are framed with a due regard to his interests. 

“ There is one thing, however, in which 1 desire to alter Mrs. 
VVyllard’s scheme, kind and hospitable as her idea is — namely, with 
regard to your residence after your marriage. I can not allow vou 
to spend the first tew months ot your married life under Mr. Wyl- 
lard’s roof, while your brother’s house is more than large enough to 
hold you and your husband. It is my wish, therefore, that Both- 
well should bring you back to the Spaniards after your honeymoon, 


220 


WYLLARirS AVEIRT). 


and that you and he should live there till your new home is ready 
for you. You will, in all probability, be very little troubled with 
my company, as 1 am likely to remain in Paris for some time to 
come; and you and Bothwell can ride my hunters and consider your- 
selves master ‘and mistress of everything. 1 must beg that .upon 
this question my wisiies shall be regarded, and that you will carry 
out my plan, even at the hazard of offending Mrs. Wyllard, whom 
you know 1 esteem and respect above all other women. 

“ And now, my dear girl, 1 have nothing to do but to wish you 
all tne blessings which a good and true-hearted woman deserves 
when she marries the man of her choice, and to request your accept- 
ance of the inclosed check for your house and trousseau. 

“ Y'our aftectionate brother, 

“ Edward Heathcote.” 

The check was for two hundred and fifty pounds; but, liberal as 
the gift was, it did not reconcile Hilda to the idea of her brother’s 
absence on her wedding-day. 

“ It is extremely unkind of him not to come,” she said, throwing 
the letter and inclosure into her desk. ” And it is not idnd of him 
to alter Dora’s plans. 1 know she looked forward to having us at 
Penmorval. But 1 shall go and see her every day, poor darling.” 

This idea of her brother’s absence on her wedding-day— that most 
fateful day in a woman’s life — cast a shadow across the sunligiit of 
Hilda’s bliss. She could think of nothing else after the receipt of 
lleathcote’s letter, and she was full of wonder as to his reasons for 
thus absenting himself upon an occasion when duty and good feel- 
ing both demanded his presence. 

What could be his motive? she asked herself. He was not the 
kind of man to spare himself the trouble of cro.-sing the Channel, 
even had it been necessary for him to return to Paris directly after 
the wedding. He had never spared trouble or shirked a duty. It 
Avas clear to her, therefore, that he had some very strong motive 
for absenting himself from the marriage ceremony. 

She could only imagine one reason for his conduct. She told 
herself that her brother, in his heart of hearts, still doubted Both- 
well, and still disapproved of her marriage. He had allowed him- 
self to be talked over by Mrs. Wyllard. The influence of that old 
unforgotten love had prevailed over his own inclination. He had 
allowed his consent to be wrung from him, and now that it was too 
late to withdraw that consent he was not the less Bothwell’s enemy. 
He could not bring himself to look on as an approving witness at a 
marriage which he regretted. He had told his sister that his dis- 
coveries in Paris had gone far to convince him of Bothwell’s guilt- 
lessness in relation to the French girl’s death — but there was still 
something in the background, some prejudice yet undispelled, some 
doubt wliich darkened friendship. 

It was the Thursday before her wedding-day, and her prepara- 
tions and arrangements had beeiy for the most pait made. There 
had been, indeed, but little to do, since her return to the Spaniards 
as a bride would simplify matters, and give her ample time for 
packing her belongings, those books and knick-knacks which had 
beautified her own rooms, her jewels, chiefly an inheritance from 


wyllarb’s weird. 


221 


her mother; and those tew wedding presents which had arrived 
from the three or four intimate triends who had heard of her engage 
ment — among tliera an immense satin- iined woik*basket from Frau- 
Jein Meyerstein — a basket provided with an orderly arrangement ot 
tapes, buttons, cottons, and needles, such as a careful housewife 
must needs require in the repair of the family linen. The Fnlulein 
had made a special journey to Plymouth in order to purchase and 
furnish this treasury of usefulness, and had brought it back in tri- 
umph. 

“ 1 can not give you beautiful things,” said the Friiulein, apolo- 
getically. ” You have too valuable jewels of your own to care for 
any trinket which 1 could offer; but in this basket you will find all 
things which a good wife needs to preserve order and neatness in 
her household goods. There is flourishing thread of every quality 
to darn your table linen. There are pearl buttons of every size for 
your husband’s shirts: angolas of every shade for his socks; needles 
of every number; bobbins; scissors of every kind; and lasll 3 % for 
remembrance of an old friend, there is this little golden thimble, 
Avhich 1 hope you will wear every day.” 

And, with this little speech, the Fniulein plumped her basket 
down in front of Hilda and burst into tears, remembering how she, 
too, had once been engaged, and how adverse fate had hindered her 
marriage. 

” You are a dear, kind soul,” said Hilda, kissing her aflection- 
ately; “and 1 am sure you couldn’t have given me anything 1 
should have liked better. 1 shall think of you every day when 1 
use it. There is nothing like a useful gift for recalling an old 
friend.” 

Dora’s present arrived the same day. A George II. tea-service, 
with two little caddies for black tea and green tea, holding about a 
Cjiuarter of a pound each. Hilda thought her silver tea-pot the sweet- 
est thing that had ever been made, and she had sat gazing at the 
service for an hour at a stretch, and thinking how delightful it 
would be to make tea for Both well in the cozy winter dusk, when 
they two should be settled in their own house above the great Atlan- 
tic sea, the curtains drawn across their old-fashionecl lattices, the 
wind raving over the hills, the waves roaring, and they two beside 
the domestic hearth, wrapped in a blessed calm — two hearts united 
and at rest. 

. She had been so happy yesterday in the thought of her future, 
and now to-day her brother’s letter seemed to have changed the 
aspect of things. She was full of a vague disquietude — could not 
settle to any task, did not even care to take her usual walk across 
the hills to the Manor to inquire about Mr. Wyilard’s health, and to 
spend an hour in confidential talk with Dora. To-day she sent a 
messenger instead, and sat all day in her own room brooding over 
Heathcote’s letter. She felt unequal to facing the twins or the 
Fraulein, and pleaded a headache as a reason for not going down to 
luncheon; and indeed her troubled thoughts about that letter from 
Paris liad given her a very real headache. 

It was four o’clock in the afternoon when she heard a carriage 
drive up to the hall door, and thought with horror that she would 
be summoned to receive callers. Her window commanded only an 


233 


wtllaed’s weird. 


angle of the porch. She could just see a shabby -looking vehicle, 
which she knew could only be a fly from the station; and her heait 
began to beat violently as she thought tliat perhaps after all her 
brother had changed his mind and had come over to do honor to 
her wedding. 

No; it was no such pleasant surprise, only a strange lady who 
asked to see her. She had sent up her card. 

“ Lady Valeria Haiiborougii. ” 

“ The lady will be greatly obliged it you will see her,” said the 
servant. ‘‘ She has come from Plymouth on purpose to see you.” 

” Of course, 1 will see her,” answered Plilda, cheerlully. ” You 
have shown her into the drawing-room, 1 suppose?” 

” Yes, ma’am.” 

Take in tea as soon as you can.” 

Plilda glanced at her glass before she left I he room. Her plain 
cashmere gown was neat enough, and her hair was tolerably tidy, 
but her e3^es had a heavy look, and she was very pale. 

‘‘ I’m afraid 1 don’t look a joyful bride, or do Bothwell credit 
in any way,” she said to herself. 

She had heard her lover speak once or twice of General 11 ar- 
borough as his kindest and most powerful friend in India. She had 
heanl from Dora of the general's death, and that Bothwell had- at- 
tended the funeral. And now she felt flattered exceedingly at the 
idea that the general’s widow had taken the trouble to come to see 
her, no doubt from pure friendliness tor her dead husband’s 'protege 
— deeming that there was no better compliment she could pay Mr. 
Grahame than to assume an interest in Ids betrothed. She, like 
Dora, took it for granted that old General liarborough’s wife would 
be an elderly woman, and she went down to the drawdng-room ex- 
pecting to see a stately and portly matron, gray-haired, bland, per- 
haps a little patronizing in her double rank of earl’s daughter and 
general’s wddow. She was surprised beyond all measure when a 
tall and slender figure rose to meet her, ana she found herself face 
to face with a .j^oung woman whose brilliant eyes and interesting 
countenance were more striking than absolute beauty. 


CPIYPTER XXlll. 

LADY VALERIA FIGHTS ITER OWN BATTLE. 

TfiE two women stood lace to face in silence for a few moments. 
Surprise made Hilda dumb. She gazed in unconcealed w^onder- 
ment at the small pale face framed in white crape, the delicate, 
high-bred features, refined almost to attenuation, the luminous gra,y 
ej^es with their long dark lashes, eyes which alone gave life and 
color to the face. 

Laily Valeria looked at the girl with so intent a scrutin}^ that 
those brilliant ey^es of hers seemed to burn into the face of her rival; 
a scathing look, measuring and appraising that modest girlish 
l)eauty, cheapening those innocent charms m scornful wonder. 

And this was the w’oman lor whose sake she, Valeria, had been 


223 


wtllard’s weird. 

flung away like an old glove. This girl-face, with its innocent blue 
eyes and babified bloom, its broad white forehead ringed round witli 
infantile curls of golden brown; ils delicately-penciled eyebrows, 
its coral lips and small white teeth. 

“ For people who admire babies the girl is well enough,” thought 
Lady Valeria. 

Yet even her small knowledge of phrenology and physigonomy 
taught her that the broad, full forehead, and the firmly-molded 
lips meant force of character and firmness of purpose — that this 
girlish-beauty was the beauty of a good and brave woman — that 
here there was no reed fcr her to twist and rend at her own passion- 
ate will, but a nature that was firmer and more concentrated than 
her own. Equal forces had met in these two; the force of passion 
and the force of principle. 

” So you are Miss Heathcote,” said the pale lips at last, after that 
silent interval, in which Hilda had heard the beating of her own 
heart: “you are the Miss Heathcote w^ho is to marry Botliwcll 
Grahame?” 

“ Yes, Lady Valeria. Bothwell has told me how kind a friend he 
had in General Haiborough,” returned Hilda calmly, trying to feel 
at her ease under that searching gaze, “ I am very much flattered 
that 5 mu should come to see me.” 

“ 1 fear you will feel less flattered w^hen you know the motive of 
my visit. No, thanks, 1 prefer standing,” she said, curtly, as Hilda 
wheeled a luxurious chair toward her guest, and courteously invited 
her to be seated; “you will hate me, no doubt, when you know 
why 1 am here— and yet 1 am come to do you a service, perhaps the 
greatest service which one woman can render to another.” 

“ What service. Lady Valeria?” asked Hilda, whose girlish bloom 
had been momently fading, anil who was now almost as pale as her 
visitor. 0 

“lam here to save you from a most unhappy union — from a fatal 
union — from marriage with a man who loves another woman!” 

“ That is not true,” said Hilda, very calmly. “ Whoever your 
informant may have been, Lady Valeria, you have been misin- 
formed. 1 am as firmly convinced of Bothwell Grahame’s love, and 
of the worth of his character, as 1 am of my existence. 1 would as 
soon doubt one as doubt the other.” 

“ You are like most girls of your age reared in the country,” said 
Lady Valeria, with quiet scorn. “ You are very ignorant, and you 
are very vain. 1 suppose you imagine that you are the first woman 
Bothwell Grahame ever loved— that at three-and -thirty he brings 
you a heart hitherto untouched by beauty; that his senses only 
awake from a life-long torpor at sight of your exquisite charms; 
that nothing less than j^oiir exceptional loveliness could kindle that 
cold nature into flame?” 

“ Lady Valeria, if you came here only to insult me — ” began 
Hilda, moving toward the door. 

“ 1 came here to read you a lesson, to save you from life misery 
it 1 can, and you shall hear me,” said Valeria, passionately. “ 1 am 
here for your sake, do you understand?— to save you and your lover 
from an irreparable folly. He would sacrifice his own happiness 
and a brillaut future from a mistaken sense of honor to you. Now, 


22i 


wyllard’s weird. 


1 want you at least to know what manner ot sacrifice he is going 
to make for you, and it 5^011 aie not made of wood— if you have a 
wojium’s heart in your bosom — you will release him. ' 

“Release him! What do you mean, Lady Valeria? This is 
sheer madness. Mr. Grahame sought me of his own accord — chose 
me deliberately for his wife, in the face ot great difficulties. We 
are both completely happy in our love for each other — in our faith 
for each other. There never was a fairer prospect of a happy 
domestic life than that which smiles upon us. There is not a cloud, 
or the shadow of a cloud, between us.” 

1 he butler brought in a little bamboo table, and arranged the old- 
fashioned tea-tra}", and during this brief interruption hostilities 
were suspended, and both women composed their faces to placid 
neutrality. Lady Valeria declined Plilda’s cup of tea, proffered 
with a tremulous hand, and directly the butler had gone she coldly 
pursued her interrogation. 

“ Answer me one question, Miss Heathcote. Do you believe 
yourself Mr. Grahame’s first love?” 

” No,” faltered Hilda. “ 1 knew that there was some one else — 
that there was an entanglement from which Mr. Grahame released 
himself, honorably and thoroughly-, before 1 accepted him as my 
future husband. 1 made that condition when first he asked me to 
l)e his wife. 1 waited until he could give me his assurance upon 
this point before 1 consented to marry him.” 

“Oh, then you did know that there was someone?” exclaimed 
Lady Valeria, with crushing scorn. “ You did know that there 
was an entanglement— or, in plain words, you knew that you were 
stealing another woman’s lover?” 

“ Lady Valeria, you have no right to sa}" such a thing.” 

“ 1 have every right Yes, you knew w’ell enough what you were 
doing, in spite ot your provincial bringing up. Every woman is 
wise in these matters. An entanglement, you say. Do you know, 
girl, that this entanglement of which you speak so flippantly wuis a 
passionate, all-absorbing love, a love that had lasted three years, 
that had bi’aved all consequences, that had laughed at danger — a 
love that burns in every line ot these letters? Read them; read 
them, gird, and see what your ‘ entanglement ’ means.” 

She had opened her reticule and had taken out a packet of letters 
while she was speaking. She flung the packet on to a table near 
Hilda. 

“ Read them. Miss Heathcote. 1 suppose you know Mr. Gra- 
hame’s handwriting. 1 suppose he has written to you.” 

“ 1 can see that they are in Both well’s hand,” said Hilda, looking 
down at the bundle of letters as if they had oeen a nest ot scorpions, 
“ but 1 decline to read letters that were not written to me.” 

“You are afraid to read them?” 

“ I will take it upon trust that they are love-letters. May 1 ask 
if they were addressed to you— General Harborough’s wife?” 

lire calm and measured accents, the steady gaze of lliose candid 
])lne eyes, the resolute attitude, ihesmall well-balanced head proudly 
erect, the nervous hands clasped flrinly on the back ot a chair by 
which the girl w^as standing, surprised Lady Valeria, and with a far 
from pleasant surprise. She had expected Hilda to be more easily 


WYLI.ARO’S WEIRD. 


826 


crushed. She had expected to see a sentimental love-sicR girl soh- 
binff at her teet, ready to surrender her lover at the first attack. 
And instead of girlish weakness, she found a woman prepared to 
do battle for her love. 

“ The letters are addressed to me. 1 should much like you to 
read them, in order that you may understand what Bothwell Gra- 
hame’s ‘ entanglement ’ was.*^ 

“ 1 dech’ne to read them. It is quite enough for me to know that 
he was in love with a married woman, and that she encouraged his 
love — she, the wife of a good and brave old man — she, who by the 
right of her noble birth should have been prouder, truer, purer than 
women of meaner race. She stooped so low. I am very sorry that 
you came here, Lady Yaleria, and very sorry that we have ever 
met— very sorry that you have told me ycur secret.” 

” It is everybody’s secret by this time. A woman in my position 
is surrounded by lynx-eyed friends, who read her inmost thoughts. 
Everybody knows that Eothwell Grahame loved me, and that 1 re- 
turned his love. To you this seems terrible, no doubt. Yet 1 can 
tell you that 1 was a true wife to my husband, as the world estimates 
truth, and that he died honoring me. You with your provincial 
ignorance and narrow mind cannot imagine a love Avhich, although 
unconquered, could remain pure — passionate, intense, devoted, but 
unstained by sin. Such a love 1 cherished for Bothwell Grahame, 
and he for me. We had promised each other that whenever my 
release came, and in the due course of nature it was not likely to be 
long deferred, our Ihes should be linked, our love should be 
blessed. 1 lived on that hope, and to Bothwell, as those letters 
would tell you, that hope was no less dear than to me. Honor, 
right feeling, honesty, were all involved in the promise which bound 
Bothwell Grahame to me; and 1 never for an instant doubted that 
he would keep that promise, never doubted that he was mine till 
death. But in an evil hour he met you. He was under a cloud. 
He was maddened by the idea that his neighbors thought the foulest 
things of him. You interposed with your girlish sympathy, 3^111* 
sentimental prettiness. You consoled, you encouraged him in his 
dark hour; and that impulsive nature was moved to a step which 
he has repented ever since. He committed himself by an avowal 
which left him no possibilit}^ of retreat, and to be true to you he 
has broken the most sacred promise that man ever made to woman. ” 

“ You released him from that promise, Lady Valeria.” 

“ Never. Some hasty words passed between us on one occasion, 
and we parted in anger. But there was no confession on his part; 
no release on mine. ” 

” He told me that the lady he had once loved had released him,” 
said Hilda, terribly crest -1 alien. 

She could not believe that Lady Valeria Harborough would tell 
her a deliberate lie. She was convinced, in spite of herself. Both- 
well had deceived her. 

” 1 beg you to read tho^e letters,” urged Valeria. ” If 3^11 do 
not read them you may think just a little worse of me than I de- 
serve. 1 do not pretend to be a good woman ; but I want you to 
know that my attachment to Bothwell Grahame never degenerated 
into a low intrigue. 1 ou may hear the vilest things said of me, 


226 wyllahd’s weird. 

perhaps, hy and by, when it is known that Mr. Giahame is not 
goina: to marry me.'’ 

Uilda looked at the letters. She knew that the reading of them 
would wring her heart; and yet the temptation was too strong to be 
steadfastly resisted. 

Slowly, reluctantly, almost as if under the influence of a mes- 
merist, Hilda’s hand was extended to the packet of letters. She 
took it up, and looked at it for a tew moments, still hesitating. 

The letters were folded length wise, without their envelopes. Both- 
well’s bold large hand was easy enough to read, even at a glance. 
W ithout untying the packet Hifda could see the nature of those let- 
ters. “ My dearest love,” ” My life,” ” My ever beloved.” Such 
words as those scattered on the folded pages told the character of 
the correspondence. She had knowui from the first, from his own 
lips, that he had cared for another woman, that he had been in 
some manner bound to that other woman— his future life so com- 
promised that he must needs win his release from that tie before he 
could ofl;er himself honorably to his new and better love. She had 
known this, and yet the sight of those impassioned phrases in the 
hand of her betrothed tortured her almost to madness. She flung 
the packet from her, flung it at her rival’s feet, as it it had been 
some loathsome reptile that had fastened on her hand. 

“It is shameful, abominable,” she cried. “ Such words as those 
written to another man’s wife. 1 will read no moie— not a line— 
not a syllable.” 

“ But you shall read, or you shall hear,” said Valeria, taking up 
the packet. “ You shall know what kind of vows this man made to 
me, this man whom you are going to marry.” 

She drew out a letter haphazard, and thrust it into Hilda’s hand, 
forced her to lead by sheer strength of will, watching her with flash- 
ing eyes all the while. 

Hilda read words of such passionate vehemence that it was difli- 
cult to believe that transient feelings could have inspired them— 
words that told of rapturous delight in a reciprocal love, and fondest 
hope of future union; words that made light of all things in earth 
and heaven as weighed against that all-absorbing love. She read 
of that scheme of the future in which the ultimate marriage of the 
lovers was counted on as a certainty. 

And it was for her sake he had abandoned this old dream— this 
plan of a life so long cherished. It was for her, an obscure, coun- 
Iry-bied girl, who could bring him neither fame nor fortune, that 
he had surrendered all hope of calling this brilliant, high-born 
woman his wife. 

And now the hour had come when he might have claimed her, 
when, his years of servitude being over, he had but to wait the brief 
span society demanded before he stood before the world with this 
woman by his side, the sharer of her social status, her ample means. 
Surely this would hiw^e been a happy fate for him, if there were any 
truth in these words of his, words .which seemed to scorch Hilda’s 
brain as she stood, silent, motionless, poring over them. 

“ You see,” said Lady Valeria, after a long sigh, “ that once at 
least 5^our lover loved me.” 

“ 1 thought that once in such things meant forever,” answered 


WYLLARDS WEIRD. 


227 

Hilda, with a quiet sadness, as of one who speaks of the dead. 
“ Yet the man who wrote this letter has talked and written of his 
love for mp just as tenderly, just as passionately, as he has written 
here. Yes, 1 knew that he had cared for some one else, but not 
like this. 1 did not think such a love as this could come twice in 
a life-time.'* 

“ Y’ou are wiser than 1 expected to find you," said Valeria, 
wiih languid insolence. “No, child, men do not love like that 
twice in a life-time. 1 had Bothwell Grahame’s heart at its best — 
his constancy— his devotion— and he would have been true to me till 
the end of his life had it not been for that business of the murder, 
which made men look askance at him, and your childish pity, 
which touched his heart when it was sorest. He was caught in the 
toils of his own affectionate nature. • His grateful heart, which al- 
ways melted at the least kindness, betrayed him. And because he 
was sympathetic and grateful, you thought he loved you; and now 
j'^ou stand between him and his first love. You are the only barrier 
to a marriage which would make Bothwell Grahame a rich man, 
and me the happiest of women." 

“ If you had heard him talk of our future; if. you had seen him 
planning our home, you would hardly doubt that he meant to be 
happy with me, Lady Valeria," said Hilda. 

“My child, I have seen your future home, 1 have heard what 
kind of a life Bothwell Grahame is to lead as your husband. He is 
to be a school -master, cramming dull boys for impossible examina- 
tions, giinding mathematics and engineering theories ah day long 
and every day, till his brain is weaiy, going over the same ground 
again and again like a horse in a mill. He is to be a nobody, a 
plodding bread-winnei living year after year in a God-forsaken vil- 
lage, far away from the great arena of life; ground down by the 
fathers and patronized by the nc othei s of his pupils. He is to cherish 
no higher ambition than to be able to pay the butcher and the baker, 
and to get himself a new coat before the old one is threadbare. 
ihat is the life to which your generous love would condemn him." 

“ We are not going to be quite such paupers as you imagine Lady 
Valeria. 1 have a small income of my own, which will at least pay 
the baker, and 1 do not think Bothweirs rich cousin would see him 
in want of a coat." 

“ My dear Miss Heathcote, it is only a question of degrees. 
Granted that Mr. Grahame is sure of his breakfast and dinner, his 
existence as a private tutor will be none the less a life of exile from 
all that makes life worth living — from the world of art and letters, 
from the strife and the glory of politics, from the great world of 
distinguished men and women. As my husband, he would have 
the ball at his feet. His fortune would be large enough to com- 
mand an opening in any career he might choose tor himself^ his con- 
nections on my side of the house would be powerful enough to help 
him, and his talents would undoubtedly bring him to the front. In 
the House bis career would be assured. With his knowled.ge of 
India and Indian war tactics he would inevitably make his mark. 
There are hardly three men in the House of Commons wlfc> have any 
real knowledge of that vast Eastern world for which English poli^ 


228 


wyllard’s weird. 

ticians legislate. You see, I have dreamed for him, thought for 
him. All my ambition is foi him, and not for myself.” 

“lam willing to believe that you love him, J.ady Valeria,” said 
Hilda, with frigid distinctness of utterance, looking her rival full 
in the face, “ since nothing but the blindest love could induce any 
woman in your position to lower yourself as you have done — first 
in India as General Harborough’s wdfe, and secondly to-day as 
General Harborough’s widow— when you come to me and ask me 
to give up my betrothed husband, the man to w^hom 1 am to be 
married next Tuesday; for 1 suppose that is the gist of all you have 
said to me.” 

“ 1 ask nothing from you, Miss Heathcote. 1 know the narrow 
view which most girls of your age, brought up as you have been, 
take of life and its obligation. 1 do not expect large-minded ideas 
from a young lady with your surroundings.” This was said with 
infinite scorn of Hilda’s rustic bearing. “ But I think it well that 
you should know how much Bothwell Grahame sacrifices for the 
privilege of having you for a wdfe. Of course, it is quite possible 
that the recompense may be worth the sacrifice. It is for you to 
judge of that. I wish you good-day. ” 

Hilda bowed and rang the bell, without a word. She did not 
accompany her visitor to the drawing-room door, but stood in a 
stony silence looking out at the window^ in front of her, with fixed 
e3'es. 

It was only when the outer door had closed on Lady Valeria that 
the girl fluug herself on the nearest sofa and abandoned herself to 
her grief. 

Alas, this entanglement of the past had been something more than 
a garland of roses. It had been a chain from which her lover had 
tried to relieve himself, but wdiose iron links yet hung about him. 

All the happiness w^as gone out of her life, all the sweet tranquillity 
which had been the holiest charm in her love for Bothwell, the deep 
faith in her beloved, the assurance of his trustworthiness, his unal- 
loyed love for her. How could she ever again believe in that love 
after she had heard the history of his passion for another; after she 
had read of that wild infatuation in his own hand; after she had 
seen the woman he had thus loved and thus addressed — a woman to 
win and hold the love of men— a woman whose beauty had that 
subtle charm of supreme refinement and distinction which is far 
above the peach-bloom tints and perfect lines of stereot 5 "ped loveli- 
ness. In Valeria, the broken hearted girl acknowledged a siren be- 
fore whose potent fascinations the wisest man might be as a fool. 
She compared herself with her rival. She walked across the room 
and stood before the long console glass, contemplating her own im- 
age, half-scornfully, half-sorrowfully. The pale, tear-blotted face 
appeared at its worst, without the freshness that constituted half its 
beauty,. The slight and girlish figure looked insignificant as com- 
pared with Valeria’s statelier bearing. 

The girl turned herself about, and looked at herself at every 
angle, as if she had been trying on a gown at her milliner’s. 

“What a dowdy 1 look,” she said to herself. “Just the very 
pattern fo#a school-master’s wife. 1 don’t suppose Lady Valeria is 
piore than an inch taller, and yet she looks a queen. It is the way 


wyllard’s wrird. 229 

she caVries her l)cad, 1 suppose, and the way she walks, like a wom- 
an accustomed to command. Yes, a man might well be proud of 
such a wite, and of the position such a wife could give him. Both- 
well in Parliament. Bothwell a great authority on Indian affairs. 
How strange it sounds. But 1 know how clever he is. How well 
he can talk upon any subject. It would be a splendid career for him. 
And tor my sake he is to forego all that and to drudge ns a tutor in 
a Cornish village. Yes, 1 suppose it would be a dreadful life for 
Luch a man — though it seemed so full of brightness when we two 
talked about it last w^eek. For my sake. IMo, Bothwell, she said 
to herself, resolutely striking her clinched hand upon the marble 
table, ‘‘No, Bothwell, not lor my sake! Yon shall not surrender 
fame and fortune for my sake!” 

And then seating herself on the low, old-fashioned window-seat, 
with clasped hands lying in her lap, and steadfast eyes brooding on 
the ground, in an attitude ot deepest thought, she retraced the his- 
tory of BothwelFs courtship. Blie asked herself if she had verily 
been, as Lady Valeria had insinuated, herself half the wooer. She 
remembared how, in the beginning ot their acquaintance, she had 
admired Dora Wyllard’s cousin— bow his riding, his singing, his 
conversation had alike seemed perfection. How she bad contrasted 
him, to his wondrous advantage, with the country squires around 
and about. It was just possible that in her girlish inexperience she 
had betrayed her admiration, had flattered Bolhw^ell into the idea 
that he liked her. And then wdien the hour of trouble came, it was 
true that she had made no effort to hide her feelings; she had given 
Bothwell her sympathy almost unasked; she had,’ perhaps, lured 
him into declaring himself as her lover, when the feeling which in- 
spired him was but the impulse of the moment, a transient emotion, 
born of gratitude. 

She could understand liow, in his self-contempt, his wounded 
honor, he had believed that his love for Valeria was a thing of the 
past, had been glad to release himself from an ignoble bondage. 
But now that Valeria was free, his first love, as devoted to him as 
ever, valuing her foitune and position only as a means for his ad- 
vancement. who could doubt that the old love would revive in his 
breast with all the old fervor; that his heart w^ould go hack to his 
first beloved, as a bird returns to its nest? 

And was his whole life to be sacrificed because of this one mis- 
taken impulse? No, the wrong was not yet irreparable. The mar- 
riage planned for next Tuesday need never take place. 

Hilda began deliberately to scheme out the manner in which she 
should set her lover free. If the thing was to be done it must be 
done bravely and thoroughly— not by halves. There must be no 
half-hearted action, no wavering, no pretense of surrender offered 
in the hope that Bothwell would refuse to accept his liberty. No; 
she must make the sacrifice as full and as effectual as that of 
Iphigenia, or of Jephtha’s daughter. 'J hey gave their lives. She 
could give her happiness, her fair future, the sweet ideal she had 
dreamed of, the life which to ever}^ good woman seems ot all lives 
most perfect, an existence spent in tranquil seclusion with the hus- 
band of her choice. 

After long brooding, deepest thought interrupted ever and anon 


330 


■wyllard’s weird. 


by a burst of passionate weeping tears which would not be re- 
stiained. Hilda Heathcote bad made her plan. She would go away, 
quite away, where Bothwell could not follow her. She w^ould write 
him a letter which w^ould leave him free to return his old allegiance, 
■while she herself would disappear, drop quietly out of the circle in 
which she was known, and remain hidden fiom all her friends tor 
the next tew months, perhaps for a year; at any rate, until the joy- 
bells had rung for Bothwell’s maniage with his old love. Alas, 
those joy Dells! She had imagined them ringing for her own wed- 
ding, had heard their sweet music in her dreams. 

Where should she go? What should slie do with herself daring 
the time of hiding? That was the question, and it was a difhcul 
one tor this inexperienced girl to answer. She had traveled so little, 
that all the wide -world outside her own home was no more familiar 
to her than a chapter of geography . She knew the names of mount- 
ains and rivers, she nad made her dream-pictures of beautiful 
places and scenes in tar away lands, but ot railways and steamers, 
of the mode and manner of journeying from one place to another, 
ot hotels and custom-houses, and the exchange ot money, she knew 
hardly anything. 

“ 1 must go somewhere very far aw^ay, to some place where he 
would not think ot following me, where he could never find me,” 
she said to herself, supposing that it would be a point of honor 
with Bothwell to follow her, to keep his plighted troth, if it w'ere 
possible. 

She wanted to set him free, to make it easy for him to go back to 
Ids old love. She told herself that Lady Valeria had spoken the 
truth, and that it was not possible for him to have forgotten that 
old love. 

When he had married Valeria, she, Hilda, w^ould be free to come 
back to her home, to take up the thread of her broken life and fol- 
low it on to the dreary end. What joy could she Imve in her life, 
having lost him? Only the joy ot knowing that she had lovea him 
better than lierself, cared more for his happiness than her own — the 
joy of woman’s martyrdom. 

After long deliberation, after having thought of a voyage to .Aus- 
tralia, or a trip to Canada after having ineditated upon various 
possible and impossible journe3^8, she decided upon a very common- 
place course of proceeding. She had often heard it remarked of a 
levanting criminal that if he stayed in London or any populous city^ 
he would in all probability have escaped liis pursuers, he ■would 
liave been lost in the press of humanity, like a bubble in a run- 
ning stream, whereas the man who goes to America is almost in- 
evitably traced and trapped. 

She would not go to London, a city she hated, and where she 
miglit at any moment run against her Cornish friends, all of whom 
paid occasional visits to the metropolis. Slie would go to Paris, 
where she would be lost among strangers — where she could live 
quietly in sotne obscure quarter, improving herself as a singer and 
piauistt^, until tier time of probation was over, and the announce- 
ment of Bothwell ’s marriage told her that her sacrifice had been 
consummated. She would so plan her life that her brother could 
know that she was well and well cured for; but even he should not 


\ / 


wtllard’s weiri>. 231 

know the place of her residence, lest he should betray her secret to 
Both well. 

This idea of Paris was partly traceable to an old influence. Un- 
til a year ago she had taken lessons front a bright little French 
woman v\ho had taught her music and singing, and who had helped 
her incidentally with her French. The lessons had been going on 
for three years when Hilda was pronounced tD have flnished her 
nuisical education, or at least to have learned as much as 
Mile. Duprez could teach her, and in those three years the 
little Frenchwoman had been a weekly visitor at the Spaniards, 
coming all the way from Plymouth to a:ive her lessons, and being 
driven back to the station by her pupil, after a cheery luncheon, 
which the little woman thoroughly enjoyed. 

Mile. Duprez claimed kindred with the famous French 
tenor of that name, and had herself been a small celebrity in her 
way. She had sung at the Opera House in the Hue le Peletier, in 
the (lays when Falcon was Diva, and Halevy’s Juive was the success 
of the hour. Then came a fatal lever, caught at JSice, where she 
had gone to fulfill an autumnal engagement. Louise Duprez lost 
the voice which had been her only fortune. Happily, though the 
voice was gone, the exquisite method learned from Garcia, and ripen- 
ed at the fcBt of Rossini, still remained, and by her excellence as 
a teacher of singing and piano, Mlle^ Duprez had contrived 
to make a comfortable living flrsl in Paris, and afterward at Plym- 
oulh, whither she had come at the suggestion of Edward Heath- 
cote, who had made her acquaintance at the house of one of his 
Parisian friends, and who had recommended her to try a residence 
in Devonshire as a cure for her delicate chest, promising at the same 
time lo do all in his power to help her m finding pupils at Plym- 
outh, where he was at that time town cleik. 

Mile. Duprez had followed Mr. Heathcote’s advice, and had 
not waited long before she found herself fairly established in 
the Devonshire seaport. Hilda had been her first pupil, and Hilda 
she loved almost as a maiden aunt loves the prettiest and most 
amiable of her nieces. It was Hilda she quoted to all her other 
pupils, “l^ou should hear a dear young pupil of mine— Miss 
H(?athcote, of Bodmin— sing that song,” she would say, and an elo- 
quent shrug of her shoulders and elevation of her eyebrows would 
express how wide the difference between Miss Heathcote’s perfec- 
tion and the shortcoming of the performer now in hand. 

Hilda was very fond of the lively little Parisienne: loved to hear 
her talk and to learn of her: hung upon her words as she expounded 
the delicacies of her native language. Hilda petted and made much 
of the little woman whenever she came to the Spaniards; had never 
spent a day in Plymouth without paying her old mistress a visit. 
And now, in her sorrow and difficulty, it was of Louise Duprez she 
thoughts as the one friend whom she could trust with her secret, 
and who would be able to help her. 

Hilda went to her own room before Fraulein Meyerstein returned 
from her afternoon walk with the twins. Those well-brought-up 
infants were ruthlessly sent from their play-room, their rocking-horse 
and the doll’s house, an hour after their early dinner, an(f were 
taken for afternoon drill by the fraulein. Needless to say that 


WYLLARD*S WEIRD. 


232 

they detested the formal trudge along dusty lanes, and abhorred the 
beauties of nature encountered on the way; but their health no doubt 
profited by this severe regimen. 

Hilda shut herself in her own rooms for the rest ot the evening, 
with the usu'al plea of a headache. But she was up before day- 
break next morning, and by six o’clock she had packed a small 
portmanteau and a Gladstone bag with her own hands, and carried 
them down surreptitiously to the stable-yard, where she gave them 
to an underling, with directions to put them in the pony cart and 
take them to Bodmin Road fetation in time for the eight o’clock 
train. She herself intended to walk to the station, as her appear- 
ance on loot would be less likely to attract attention than in the 
pony cart with the luggage. 

So in the dewy early morning, alone and unattended, with ashen 
cheeks and eyelids swollen by long weeping, Hilda Heathcote crept 
out of her brother’s house, and walked across the hills, trusting to the 
keen breath of the autumn wind to obliterate the traces of a night 
of anguish before she arrived at the station. 

• She had left letters for her brother and for the fraulein. Ko one 
need be made uneasy at her disappearance. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

AN ELOPEMENT ON NEW LINES. 

Mlle. Duprez occupied a first floor in an airy terrace of 
houses overlooking the Hoe." She was the kind of little woman 
to whom eating and drinking and fine dress are matters ot very 
small moment, but who could not endure to live in a shabby hotise 
or an ugly neighbborhood. All her surroundings were neat and 
bright and fair to look upon. She had brought over her furniture 
from Paris. It was the remnant of that furniture which had 
adorned her great-grandmothei ’s house at Versailles before the 
fiery spirits ot the tiers etat met in the tennis-court, and the revolu- 
tion began. There was not much of it left, but that little was of 
the best period in French cabinet work, and in the most perfect 
taste. 

Mademoiselle loved this heritage from lier ancestors as if the 
chairs and sofa, buhl and ormolu cabinet and writing-table had been 
living things. She used to sit and contemplate them sometimes, be- 
tween the lights, in a dreamy mood, and think how much they 
might have lold her about Marie Antoinette and her court, and the 
old days ot the (Eil de Boeuf , if they could but have found a voice 
The honlieur du jour with its ormolu mounts used to seem very 
human as the firelight shone upon it. The goat’s heads used to 
wink and twinkle like human eyes, while the floral moldings 
assumed the form of a broad human grin as who should say, “ Ah, 
1 could tell you some line farces about those ladies, if 1 couli but 
speak!” 

Mademoiselle’s rooms were always the very pink of neatness; not 
a book out of line on the shelves above the secretaire, not a rag of 


wyllard’s weird. 233 

work or a stray pincushion littering the tables; newspapers, pam- 
phlets, magazines all in their places; while maaeinoiselle was one of 
those dainty little women who never have a pin awry in their toilet. 

So when Miss Heathcote was ushered into the singing-mistress's 
sahn at half -past nine in the morning, her unexpected appearance 
at such an early hour caused neither confusion nor annoyance. 

Mademoiselle had been breakfasting at a small table in front of 
the open window, a temperate meal of coffee and roll neatly arranged 
on a tray. Spotless damask and pretty china made the tray a pict- j 
lire, with mademoiselle’s fresh, pink cambric gown and bright little ‘ 
face for background. I 

“ My dear child, how early; lam enchanted to see you,” she cried, 
jumping up and kissing her old pupil on both cheeks. “ What a 
good girl to come to me before my day’s work begins. This is one 
ot my full days, from eleven till five. Squall, squall, thump, 
thump, every kind of outrage upon the genius of harmony must 
these poor ears of mine listen to; and 1 must be very polite, all 
the same-— must not lose patience and cry aloud — ah, how I long 
to do it sometimes:—* My love, you have no more voice than a pea- 
cock, no more ear than a four-post bedstead, your accent is diabol- 
ical, and you are the very embodiment of idiocy.’ Y^ou see one 
must not be quite frank with one’s pupils. But, Hilda, my pet, 
what is the matter? Y^ou have been crying!” 

” Kot since last night, mademoiselle,” answered Hilda, looking 
at her triend with hard, dry eyes. 1 cried so much last night that 
I don’t think 1 shall ever shed a tear again. There must be an end, 
you know, even to tears.” 

“My sweetest child, what in heaven's name has happened? 
Y^onr brother, Mr. Effecottel*' 

Louise Duprez gasped as she spoke the name. Edward Heath- 
cote was her benefactor, that one Englishman whom she admired 
and honored with all her heart and mind, whom she thought almost 
equal to the typical Frenchman, the French gentleman of a regime 
tnat is almost forgotten, of a day that is dead. 

“ My brother is quite well, at least as far as 1 know,” answered 
Hilda, wit b sisterly indilference ; and then she made Mile. Duprez 
sit down, and knelt at her feet, clasping her hands and looking up 
at her earnestly. “ My dear kind friend, 1 want you to help me in 
a crisis of my life,” she said. 

“ To help 5 mu to run away with Mr. Grahame, 1 suppose. No, 
no, Hilda, passihete, 1 am your brother’s friend, above all things. 
If Mr. Effecotte disapproves of your marriage, 1 will do nothing to 
further it.” 

“ Don’t be in such a hurry, mademoiselle,” said Hilda. “ Hear 
my trouble first, and then help me to lighten it it you can. 1 think 
you ought to know that 1 am not the kind of girl to make a runa- 
way marriage.” 

“ Indeed, 1 know nothing ot the kind about any English girl. 
Runaway marriages seem as common in this country as runaway 
knocks at my door. ’ ’ 

“ Englishwomen run away before marriage, and Frenchwomen 
after,” retorted Hilda. 

” I don’t think your English maidens such irreproachable creat- 


234 


wi^llard’s weird. 


ures/’ said the Parisienne. There is your Lady Valeria Harbor- 
ough, for instance, who had one of the best husbands in Christen- 
dom, and yet was always surrounded by a herd of admirers, and 
made herself more talked about than any woman in Plymouth.’’ 

“ Was she really talked about?” asked Hilda, eagerly. 

” Really — leally! 1 don’t mean to say that she was supposed to 
be actually incorrect in her conduct; but she brought her Indian 
manners back to England with her. And now the papers are be- 
ginning to be impertinent about her— or, at least, this stupid little 
paper, which models itself on some of the London society papers.” 

Mile. Duprez pointed to a periodical on the table at her side, a 
sheet of eight pages, printed on pink paper, and calling itself the 
‘‘ Pl3^moiitri Censor.” Hilda snatched it up, and ran her eye rap- 
idly along the paragraphs, till she came to one worded thus: 

‘'Rumors are already afloat in privileged circles as to the proba- 
bilities of a second hymen for the beautiful widow of a general offi- 
cer lately gone over to the majority. Foremost in the betting stands 
a certain ci-devant captain of engineers, who saved the general’s life 
by a dexterous shot in the jungle, and who has been dii dernier Men 
with Lad}^ Y ever since. Ours is an age of rehabilitations.” 

“Lady Valeria was right,” murmured Hilda. “People know 
all about her folly. Her only redemption will be her marriage with 
Bothwell.” 

And then she opened her heart to her old friend — told her everj^- 
thing that had passed between herself and Lady Valeria — told her 
how she had madeuplier mind to sacrifice her own happiness rather 
than to let Bothwell’s life be spoiled b}^ a mistaken engagement. At 
first, mademoiselle ridiculed her plan as Quixotic to absurdity, and 
refused to have anything to do with it. But the girl’s indomitable 
resolution, her intense earnestness of purpose, prevailed at last over 
the Frenchwoman’s scruples. Louise Duprez, at four-and-forty 
years of age, was as romantic as the simplest school-girl. She had 
spent the last fifteen years of her life almost entirely among girls. 
She had been the confidante of their love affairs, their fond dreams 
of the ideal; she had counseled and lectured them, had sympathized 
and sorrowed and joyed with them. And now she was quite ready 
to be impressed by the heroic element in Hilda’s intended sacrifice. 
The happiness of one young life given away to secure the fame and 
fortune of another and dearer life. It was a grand and romantic 
scheme, which kindled all Louise Duprez’s warmest fancies, 
i “ Would 1 were young again to do such a thing myselt for my 
beloved,” she thought to herself, with a tender sigh tor her only 
lover, who had peiished, a rubicund, burly major of artillery^ on 
the bloody field of Sedan. 

“ How shall 1 ever answer to your brother, my best of friends, if 
1 assist you in rebellion against him?” asked Mile. Duprez, after a 
thoughtful silence. 

“ 1 am not rebelling against my brother; 1 am only leaving my 
home in order to break an engagement which Edward always dis- 
approved. He gave his consent reluctantly at the last, to please Mrs. 
Wyllard, He will be very glad to hear ihat the engagement is can- 
celed.” 


wyllaed’s weied. 336 

** >i<it you have no ripjht to conceal your whereabouts from him.*’ 

“ The concealineni need not last long — only till Both well has gone 
back to his old love, and that 1 should think will be very soon,” 
with a stifled sob. “ There is no use in your being unkind, made- 
moiselle. If 1 do not find a home in France with your aid, 1 shall 
find it without you. 1 have made up my mind to go to Southamp- 
ton bx Jhe midday train, and to cross to Havre to-night. The 
steamer^Ie’aves Southampton at ten o’clock. There will be plenty 
of time foi me to get there.” 

“ And you are going alone, without even a maid?” 

“ Absolutely alone.” 

“ Yon cannot possibly live alone among strangers — it is out of 
the question,” protested mademoiselle. 

“ That is why 1 ask you to give me an introduction to some 
friends of yours in a quiet part of Paris, who will take me into their 
family circle and help me to carry on my musical education at the 
Conservatoire. The Conservatoire has been the dream of my life. 
You must know of such people, with your numerous acquaintance 
among the musical profession — ” 

“ Yes, no doubt 1 know of such people. But how am I to recon- 
cile the idea of giving you such an introduction with my duty to 
your brother?” argued mademoiselle. 

“ Y’our duty to my brother— if there is any such thing — is to find 
me a respectable home in Paris,” said Hilda. “ 1 tell you once for 
all, that 1 have made up my mind to start for Paris to-night — to live 
there in some quiet quarter for the next year or so. 1 shall go forth 
in the strength of my own ignorance and courage, like Miss Bird in 
her journey across the mountains, if you don’t help me. Perhaps 1 
may fall among thieves; and mind, if 1 do, it will be your fault.” 

She spoke with extraordinary resolution, with an animated air 
which seemed hardly compatible with grief. Yet this spurious gay- 
ety of hers was the worst symptom of all, and was very close to 
hysteria. 

Louise Duprez could read the meaning that underlay that false air 
of good spirits. She saw that the girl was nearly heart-broken, and 
that this resolution of hers which she had taken up so heroically 
was perhaps the ver}^ best possible issue out of her sorrow ; for 
Louise accepted Hilda’s own view of the case, and took it for grant- 
ed that Both well was willing to go back to his old love, and to 
profit by the chance of fortune. With her experience as a woman of 
the ^vorld, having seen how selfishness and self-seeking are the mo- 
tive powders that propel the machine called society. Mile. Duprez 
was^ready to believe that General Haiborough’s death, and Lady 
Y'aleria’s position as a rich widow, would entirely alter Bothwell’s 
views. 

It w^as very hard for Hilda; but still human nature is human nat- 
ure, and a young man with his way to carve in the w orld wrould 
hardly reject such an opportunity as a marriage with Lady Valeria 
Harborough. 

Had Hilda allowed matters to take their course, the poor young 
man would no doubt have gone quietly to his fate — he would have 
marched heroically up to the altar, he would have settled down with 
his young wife in the village home that he had planned for himself, 


236 


WYLLAKD'S WETKD. 


he would have drudged as a teacher of stupid lads, and he '^ould 
have repented ever afterward. What happiness could possibly come 
to Hilda in a life spent with a disappointed man, who would re- 
member, every day of his toilsome existence, that he haa missed 
fame and fortune for his wife's sake. 

“ That a man should be fond of teaching for its own sake— 
n*esi pas JDieic possible I” exclaimed Louise Duprez, with shudder- 
ing reminiscences of her own sufferings. 

So, having reasoned thus, she made up her mind to help Hilda 
to cany out her act of self-abnegation. 

“ If 1 did not believe that you are acting for your own ultimate 
Happiness, I would not aid you in this matter by one jot or one 
tittle, ’’ said the old woman, in her own energetic wa3^ “but, as it 
is, 1 am going to put on my bonnet and take you to Paris. ’’ 

This was said in so quiet a manner that Hilda thought her old mis- 
tress was joking. 

“ You don’t mean to go with me?” she began. 

“1 don’t mean to let your brother’s sister tiavel alone, arrive 
alone, and a stranger, in such a city as Paiis. There is no Rue des 
Feves now, with its famous Lapin Bianc, where Eugene Sue’s 
thieves used to keep their rendezvous— but for all that has been 
done, Paris is Paris— and if you have set your mind upon going 
there, 1 must go with you.” 

“ But, dear mademoiselle, think of the trouble, the fatigue— and 
your lessons.” 

“ My lessons must stand over till my return. 1 shall be back 
next Monday. Don’t say another word, Hilda. There’s no time to 
be wasted in talk. You are going to eat your breakfast. I’ll wager 
you left home without so much as a cup of tea.” 

“ Theie was nobody up,” faltered Hilda, who had taken notliiui:: 
but a cup of tea since Lady Valeria’s visit, and who was suffering 
all the pangs of exhaustion. 

“ Of course not; and you have been walking and traveling, and 
are ready to faint at this moment,” protested Louise, ringing as she 
spoke. 

“ You are going to have some nice hot coffee— 1 have taught them 
to make coffee in this house, 1 who speak to you — and an egg, 
while 1 write to my pupils to apologize for my suddeu disappear- 
ance, and precisely at twelve o’clock there will be a fly at the door 
to take us to the station.” 

“ 1 have a check to cash at the bank,” said Hilda. “ Perhaps the 
maid could get it cashed for me.” 

“ For how much is your check?” 

“ Two hundred and fifty pounds.” 

“ Do you think I would let my poor little slavey trot about Plym- 
outh with two hundred and fifty pounds,” cried mademoiselle. 
“ She is as honest as the day ; but the magnitude of the sum would 
turn her brain. She would walk into the harbor unawares. Ho, if 
you have such a check as that to cash, you must take it to the bank 
yourself; and instead of carrying all the cash with you to Paris, you 
had better draw only fifty, and leave the two hundred on deposit. 
You can draw more when you want it.” 

The slavey answered the bell, a neat little handmaiden in pink 


7 


\VYLLAPtD*S WEIHl). 

cotton, who was told to get breakfast for jVliss Heathcote, and to 
order a fly to be at the door at a quarter to twelve. 

“ That will allow us fifteen minutes tor the bank,” said mademoi- 
selle, opening lier desk, and beginning her letters. 

Everything was done in a brisk, business-like manner. It was only 
when they were in the train which was to take them by way ot 
Exeter to Salisbury, and then to Southampton, that Hilda had 
leisure to realize the step which she had taken. 

She had written to Bolhwell overnight, had opened her heart to him, 
telling him that his happiness was dearer to her than her own, that 
his honor was paramount in her mind over eveiy other consideration. 
And she told him that honor should constrain him to many the 
woman who had been comprouxised by his love in tl»epast, and who 
loved him unselfishly and devotedly in the present, holding her own 
pride as nothing when weighed against her love for him. 

” Ko woman could act as Lady Valeria has acted this day to 
whom love was not all in all,” she wrote, pleading her rival’s cause, 
because she thought it was the cause of right, and Botliwell’s cause 
only. ” Think how such a woman must have lowered herself in 
her own self-respect when she came to me, her interior in social sta- 
tion, her junior by ten years, to make confession ot her love. It 
was for your sake she stooped so low. Both well. 

” Do not try — out of a mistaken sense of duty~to follow me, or 
to dissuade me from a decision which is irrevocable. ‘When you 
receive this letter 1 shall have entered upon a new phase ot life, in 
which it would be almost impossible for you to find me— and if you 
did -find me, to what end? My mind is made up. Do not allow 
your kind heart to be tormented by needless remorse. My heart is not 
broken, dear Bothwell. 1 mtan to live my life peacefully, content- 
edly; to cultivate new ideas of happiness, wider horizons. You 
need never be troubled at the thought that this broken engagement 
ot ours has broken my, life. Be sure only of one thing, that my 
dearest hope, wherever 1 may be, will be tor your welfare. To 
know that your life is happy will be enough to fill my cup ot joy.” 

She had written from the depth of her faithful heart, resigning 
him willingly, having no sense ot ill-usage, no anger even against 
Lady Valeria, only some touch of contempt for a woman who had 
been an unworthy wufe to a noble liusband. 

And now the thing was done. Her letter— posted in Plymouth 
by her own hand— was on its way to Bothwell. Could she doubt, 
knowing what she knew, that the letter would come upon him as a 
welcomB release — would relieve him from a most embarrassing 
position? And then she remembered that wretched paragraph in 
the ‘‘ Censor;” and it seemed to her that Bothw’eH’a first duty in 
lite was to set Lady Valeria right before the world. Even if he had 
ceased to love her, his duty was not the less clear — but who could 
doubt that the old love still held the first place in his heart?” 

The journey from Plymouth to Southampton seemed wofully 
long that bright September day. The sun was almost as strong as 
it had been in August, and the light glared in upon Hilda as she sat 
in the corner of the carriage, very white and very silent, but per- 
fectly calm and collected. Her eyelids were heavy and swollen 


avyllard's weird. 


2;]8 

after the nii^ht of weeping, but her eyes were tearless. Louise 
Duprez gave a furtive look^every now and then to see if the girl w^as 
quietly weeping behind the nevvspaper which she pretended to read, 
but there were no tears in the wistful eyes so full of troubled 
thought. 

Once, when they had the compartment to themselves for a little 
while between station and station, Louise put out her hand and 
clasped Hilda’s as it held the newspaper. 

“Have you changed your mind?” she asked; “you have had 
plenty ot time for thinking in this wretched omnibus train. Shall 
we take another train at Exeler and go back again?” 

“ Not for the ’world,” answered Hilda, ^irInl 3 ^ “ Do you sup- 
pose i did not think before 1 made up my mind last night? 1 was 
thinking all night long.” 

Mile. Duprez gave a little submissive sigh. In her own philo- 
sophic mind she was sure the girl was right; but then Mile. Duprez 
hatl arrived at an age when the surrender of a lover may be borne, 
and she was keen-witted enough to know that these things were 
different for Hilda. 

It was only in the atternoon of the next day that the}^ arrived at 
the St. Lazare terminus, whence mademoiselle drove at once to 
the Hotel du Bon Latontaiue, on the left side of the Seine, a house 
much affected bv bishops and abbes, and having a semi-clerical and 
old-world air altogether different from the srnait caravanseiys in 
Anglo-American Paris. Hilda was too unhappy to feel any delight 
in the grandeur ot boulevards, churches and palaces, which she 
passed on her way from the station to the hotel. Her aching eyes 
saw all things dimly, as in a dream. She had only a vague sense 
of wide streets, glancing river, stupendous architecture, white in 
the autumn sun; and then when the carriage had crossed the river 
there came narrower streets, shabbier houses, and an air of busier 
and more homely life. 

Mile. Duprez ordered lunch at the hotel, where she was known 
and welcomed with friendliest greeting by manageress and head- 
waiter, and Hilda for the first time in her life found herself silting 
in the public dining room of a Parisian hotel. Happily at this 
hour of the day the room w^as empty, and Hilda and herfridid w^ere 
as much alone at their little table looking into the quaint old Paris- 
ian garden as they could have been at Hie Spaniards. , 

And now Mile. Duprez unfolded her plans. She knew of a fam- 
ily living in the Hue du Bac, an artistic family, the father and sous 
painters, engravers, caricaturists; one of the daughters literary, 
anollur musical and a pupil at the Conservatoire— ^the mol her all 
that there is of the most bourgeoise, but a good creature, devoted to 
her children, a woman to whose care Mile. Duprez felt that she 
could safely confide her young friend. 

“ It will he a long jaunt from the Rue du Bac to the Oonseivatoire 
in the Rue du Faubourg Poissonni^re,” she said, “ but you aud 
Mathilde can go there together, aud it will do you good to take long 
walks. The only danger is that you may run against your biother 
on the Boulevard. ” 

“ 1 should not think Edward would stay much longer in Paris,” 
said Hilda. 


wyllard’s weird. 


239 


** Perhaps while he is in Pans it would te safer for you to go in 
the omnibus,” suggested mademoiselle. ‘‘Mr. Heathcote is not 
likely 10 be riding in omnibuses.” 

The little woman trotted off to the Rue du Bac, leaving Hilda to 
amuse herself with a flabby copy of ‘‘ L’Univers,” three days old, 
or to gaze despondently at the stony quadrangle, with its bust of the 
good Lafontaine, and its three or four evergreens. Seen by those 
melancholy eyes of hers the garden looked like a family vault, with 
the good Lafontaine for the father of the race. 

Mile. Luprez came back in less than an hour. She had seen that 
dear good soul Mme. Tibet, and had settled everything. Mine. Til- 
let would be happy to receive Miss Heathcote, and would be to her 
as a mother. By putting her two daughters into one room, she 
could contrive to spare a neat little sleeping-apartment for the new 
inmate. Things were somewhat Bohemian in the house, but what 
would you expect with a gifted and eccentric family? Ever3dhiug 
was scrupulously clean. There triumphed the household genius. 
Mme. Tibet had been born in an old farmhouse in Brittany, where 
you might have eaten your dinner off the red brick floor. 

Mathilde was prepared to welcome Miss Heathcote as a sister. 
There was no one in the family, besides herself, who cared a straw 
for classical music, from Beethoven to Raff. The brothers all be- 
lieved in the Mme, Aogot school, and had no sympathy with any- 
thing loftier. Poor Mathilde had been pining for s^^mpathy, and to 
have a jmung companion who would toil at Bach’s fugues and pre- 
ludes, and cram Chopin, Raff, and Bram, and trudge to the Con- 
servatoire with her, would be delightful. 

“ They are all going to make much of you,” said Louise Duprez; 
“ 1 will answer for that in advance. My only fear is that the three 
brothers will all fab in love with you, and then there will be storms. 
They are rather fiery spirits.” 

“ 1 shall not give them any provocation.” said Hilda, and indeed 
the pale grave face, with the troubled look in the eyes, was not sug- 
gestive of coquetry. 

” Madame Tibet promises to be ready to receive you to-morrow,” 
continued Mile. Duprez. 1 have agreed for you to pay her her 
oWn terms, which 1 do not think exorbitant, considering that every- 
thing in Paris is execrably dear. You are to pay her ten pounds a 
calendar month, which is to include everything, even to your 
laundress.” 

” It sounds very cheap,” said Hilda, and she would have said the 
same if the sum had been twenty pounds, or even forty. She was 
not in a state of mind in w^hich to consider pounds, shillings, and 
pence. 

Mademoiselle insisted upon taking her off to see some of the sights 
of Paris — Kotre Dame— the Louvie — and then they drove off to the 
Conservatoire, and made inquiries as to the conditions under which 
Miss Heathcote, as a stranger, might be allowed to take lessons fiom 
the professors attached to that institution. She was to take singing 
lessons from M. Somebody, of great renown, and music lessons 
from Mme. Somebody of equal renown. Shew’^as to have in all tour 
lessons a week, on four different days; and it seemed to Mile. 
Duprez that she would thus be too closely occupied to have leisure 


WYLLAUI) tS WEIKD. 


UO 

for much grief. The professors of the Parisian Conservatoire are 
very severe in their leaching, and a good deal of work 5s required 
of a pupil. The pianisLe must play her portion of Chopin and her 
tale of Bach without book at the second time of hearing. The 
vocalist must give proof tliat she has labored earnestly at "her sol- 
feggio 

After the business interview at the Conservatoire, where the name 
of Mile. Duprez was a power, the kindly little French woman 
ordered the coachman to drive by the Boulevard and the Parc Mon- 
ceau to the Bois de Boulogne. She steeped her young friend in the 
glory and beauty of Pans, hoping to prevent the possibility of much 
thought amidst so new and bright a world. And then she proposed 
that they should get seats at the Frangais, where a new play of Sar 
dou’s was being acted. 

Hilda roused herself from the lethargy in which she had looked 
at the splendors of the Faubourg St. Honore and the brightness of 
the Bois to protest against the idea of the theater. 

“ 1 am not going fo pretend to amuse myself when I am misera- 
ble,” she said. ” 1 mean to forget Both well by and by, or to think 
of him only as a dear triend whose happiness makes me happy; but 
1 can not pretend to have forgotten him to-day. 1 won’t go to the 
theater and make believe to be amused. 1 should feel as if 1 were 
seeking pleasure abroad w’hen there was someone tliat 1 loved lying 
dead «nt home. But that need not prevent your seeing Sardou’s 
play, dear mademoiselle. I can stay quietly at the hotel, and read 
m^^self to sleep.” 

” ]\ly child, 1 don’t care a straw for Bardou’s play, except as a 
means of making you forget your troubles. We ill go and take a 
quiet cup of tea with Madame Tillet, so that 3 ^ou may get reconciled 
to your new surroundings. That will be much better, and you 
must go to bed early and get a good night’s rest.” 

They dined at the hotel, in the odor of sanctity as it were, for a 
bishop and a cure were dining at the table next them, and dining 
uncommonly well, with a nice appreciation of the plat dujour, and 
of some excellent chambertin which appeared toward the close of 
the entertainment. 

” 1 hope you won’t be horrified when you hear that the Tillets 
live over a shop,” said Mile. Duprez, as she and Hilda were walk- 
ing down the Rue de Crenelle on their way to the Rue du Bac. 

It is only a quiet little glover’s shop, but 1 thought the idea might 
shock you.” 

” 1 am not at all shocked. 1 should not be, even it Madame Til- 
let kept the shop,” answered Hilda, smiling her faint sweet smile, 
which told of a gentle nature and a heart in pain. 

They came to the glover’s shop presently, a very obscure little 
shop in a street where there are many big shops; shops of renown 
even, like the Petit St. Thomas, and the Bon Marche, the Whiteley 
of Paris. There was a private door beside the glover’s. A narrow 
])assage and a dark staircase conducted to the abode of the Tillets, 
w hich was on the second floor, and the approach ,to which echoed 
with sonorous laughter and manly voices, with an admixture of 
girlish treble. 

“The children are all at home,” said Mile. Duprez, who had 


WYLLAKD’S AVEIKD. 241 

been accustomed to hear Mme. Tillet talk of her bearded and manly 
brood as “ mes enfants/’ 

Hilda found herself presently in the bosom of the family, being 
embraced by Mme. Tillet, who was a stout, comfortable-looking 
matron in a gray cashmere gown and black mittens. The family 
sitting-room was a spacious apartment, with piano, book-cases, 
easels, drawing-tables, work-tables, all the means of various kinds 
of study and art, and it seemed overflowing with human life, for 
half buried in an arm-chair by the hearth reclined the father, while 
the three sons, Adolphe, Victor, and Frederic, were«eatedat differ- 
ent tables, each with his particular lamp, while the two daughters 
sat on each side of a large work-basket stitching industriously at a 
new gown which they were making together. 

“ Welcome, my child,'’ said Mme. Tillet, and then proceeded to 
introduce her children. 

Adolphe, the eldest, w^as distinguished for his etchings, and rose 
from his delicate work upon a sheet of copper to receive the new 
inmate. He was a big bearded fellow with a mahogany com- 
plexion, and slouching shoulders, in manners and disposition as 
simple as a child. Victor was a w'ood engraver who worked for 
flachette on the Boulevard St. Germain, hard by, and earned more 
money than any one else in the family. Frederic w^as the genius, a 
caricaturist. He drew for the “Petit Journal” and the “Vic 
Parisienne,” and devoted his days and rights to the concoction of 
hUue^ for those papers. Ten 3^ears ago the father had been on the 
high-road to fame and fortune as a painter of genre, but he had let 
other runners in the race go by him, somehow, and now the family 
pot-au jeu was supplied by the industry of the children, while the 
father dreamed his day-dreams, and reviled his more successful con- 
temporaries by the domestic hearth. The sons were great, hulking, 
soft-hearted fellows, who adored their mother, tolerated their 
father’s idleness without a murmur, and had no fault except that 
of a disposition to fall in love at the very slightest provocation. 

Marcelline, the elder daughter, gained her share of the family paiee 
by the exercise of her pen. She wrote for two or three fashion mag- 
azines and was an authority upon the ways and customs, the houses 
and gowns of the great world, under various high-sounding noms 
de plume, "She signed herself in one paper La Comtesse Boisjoli, 
in another La Marquise de la Valliere. JNeedless to add that she 
liad never crossed the thresholds of those great houses which she 
described so glibly. She got her informatiDn from shopkeepers, her 
glimpses of society from the pavement on which rank and beauty 
alighted for an instant in their passage from the carriage to the hall- 
door. All the lest was derived from a lively inner-consciousness. 

Mathilde was the more ssrious sister, devoted to art for art’s 
saxe; believing in Bach and the severe school as the highest ideal 
in life, worshiping the memory of Berlioz, and despising those van- 
ities which occupied all the thoughts of her elder sister. 

All the family made Hilda welcome. They praised her French, 
pronounced falteringl}^ in a paroxysm of shyness. The girls took off 
her hat and jacket, and installed her in a comfortable chair, while 
madame bustled about with the bonne, and set out a tea-tray and a 
feast of sweet cakes such as French women love. Nothing could be 


242 


wyllaed’s weird. 


more fortunate than that dear Mile. Duprez and her sweet young 
triend had dropped in to tea this evening, protested Mrae. Tillef, 
for they were momentariij^ expecting a visit from one of the most 
intellectual men in Paris, Sigisniond Trottier. “You must have 
heard of Monsieur Trottier,” said madame, “his name must be 
known in London as well as in Paris.” 

Hilda blushingly admitted that she knew very little ot London, 
and that she had never herd of Monsieur Trottier. 

“ Peally! But he must have a world- wide fame. The ‘ Taon,’ 
for which he writes, has made a greater sensation than even the 
' Lanterne ' in the days of Napoleon. 111. The last deteat of the 
government was ascribed to the influence ot the ‘Taon.’ The 
‘ Taon ’ has done more to undermine the Conservative party .than 
any other paper,” said M. Tillet, from the depths ot his easy-chair. 
“Yet politics are not Trottier’s chief forte. As a politician he is 
trenchant and eflective, but as a writer upon social topics he is really 
great.” 

The honne opened the door and announced “ Monsieur Trottier,” 
and Hilda looked anxiously at the newcomer, flnding herself tor 
the first time in her life in the company of a literary genius. 

She would have liked to see the literary genius in a cleaner shirt, 
but she had stories of Chatterton, of Savage, andeTohnson and Gold- 
smith at heart, and it seemed to her only natural that genius should 
be rather dirty, and clad in a greasy olive green coat; that genius 
should have long gray hair, bushy eyebrows, and a cadaverous 
visage. She sat in her corner silently, and did not expect to be 
noticed, but M. Tillet presented his friend to her in a special man- 
ner, and to her surprise the olive-green genius gave a little start at 
the mention of her name. 

“ Etfecotte,” he exclaimed, “ are all the English people, who are 
not Smith or Brown, called Effecotte? Or, is this young lady re- 
lated to my old friend M. Edouard Effecotte, of Cornouailles?” 

“ Grand Dieu,” exclaimed Mile. Duprez, “ what a small world it 
is we live ini” 


CHAPTt:R XXV. 

IN THE LAND OF BOHEMIA. 

Hilda looked nervously to the right and to the left, like some wild 
creature brought to bay, seeking some outlet whereby she could 
escape. Those keen black eyes scrutinizing her from under those 
shaggy gray eyebrows; that cadaverous countenance with its lan- 
tern jaws, seemed to her as the lace ot a grinning fiend. This man 
whom she had never seen in her life before, had but to hear her 
name mentioned and at once knew all about her. This Paris which 
she had thought ot as a wilderness where she and her sorrow might 
hide, was a kind of trap into which she had fallen. Abov’^e all 
things she had wished to avoid any encounter with her brother, 
whose affection or whose ideaof brotherly duty might interfere with 
her scheme ot self-sacrifice. 

Sigismond Trottier contemplated her curiously with his cynical 
smile, amused at her embariassment, reading whole histories in her 


•vvyllaeb's weird. 


243 

changing color, her look of fright and desperation. Something 
wrong here, he told himself. A pretty girl, fallen among this band 
of Bohemians, in Paris, without the knowledge of her kindred. One 
of those social mysteries whicli Sigismond had such a happy knack 
of unraveling. 

‘‘ Edward Heathcote is my brother,” faltered Hilda, at last, ‘'but 
he does not know that 1 am in Paris. Ido not wish him to know/’ 

“ Consider me dumb forever upon the subject of your residence 
here, mademoiselle,” said Sigismond, with a respectful bow. “A 
lady’s wish is a command.” 

He shook hands with his old friend the painter. They had been 
chums for the last twenty years; and it v-as to his delight in Sigis- 
niond Trottier’s society, among other causes, that M. Tillel owed 
his decadence as an artist. It was not that he had loved art less, 
but he had loved the Boulevard more. He had given up his nights 
to wit and pleasure, and he bad found his working days curiously 
shortened in consequence. He had been renowned as one of the 
finest talkers upon art, famed for burning eloquence when he 
praised the great oainlers of the past, and for his scathing wit when 
he ridiculed the little painters of the present; for he had even then 
fallen to that stage in the idler’s career, when a man’s chief conso- 
lation is to undervalue contemporaneous merit. He had lived and 
enjoyed his lite in those days, had spent his money laster than he 
earned it, and had fallen into the ranks of failure, to be supported 
by the toil of his wife and her children, to be the family log, the 
family disease. They were all very patient, those children of his. 
They worked for him and admired him, believed in him almost. 
They admired the great genius he might have been if he had only 
worked. They valued him for potentialities of greatness of which 
he talked sometimes, in his dreamy way, as if those idle aspirings 
had been actual achievements. 

The shabby old salon, with its dark red paper, stained and faded 
with age, was glorified by some of M. Tillet’s pictures, painted be- 
fore his slothful hand had begun to lose its cunning. There hung 
the portrait of a beautiful w^oman, a duchess, exquisitely painted — 
a lovely head, an ideal neck and shoulders, in white satin and brown 
fur, like an old Venetian picture — the head had been successful, but 
shoulders, arms and draperies were still unfinished. The picture 
had been a commission, an offering from the duchess to her dis- 
tinguished father, a minister of state, on his fUe. But {\\Qfete had 
come and gone, and the portrait was not ready. Time had been 
conceded, and more time, and still the draperies remained unfin- 
ished, the picture was not fit to leave the painter’s studio, and 
finally the commission had been canceled. Sonre lesser genius had 
painted the duchess briskly, punctually, readily, out of hand. Tlipse 
meaner souls can go in harness. And the meaner soul received the 
seven thousand francs which were to have been paid to M. Tibet, 
and the painter had his unfinished picture, as a kind of pendant to 
his incomplete life. Happily, those trustful sons and daughters of 
his were very proud of that unfinished portrait, and of the four or 
five sketches for genre pictures, never painted, which adorned the 
family salon. There was not another man in France who could 
paint like their father, they said, or who had such talent in compo- 


344 


WYLLAUn’s WEHiD. 

silion. Messonnier would have been nowhere in the race if Eugene 
Tillet had but stuck to his easel. 

Trotlier and M. Tillet began to talli, and the sons went on with 
their work in a free-and eas}^ maner, while madanie and the daugh- 
ters waited upon their guests. Poor Hilda had been so unnerved 
by this unexpected encounter with a triend nt Her brother's that she 
could only falter the feeblest replies to Marcelline and Mathilde, who 
tried to make themseives at home with her. 

Marcel line, who was rather strong-minded, lost patience at last, 
and asked Mile. Duprez, in an undertone, as she handed a plate of 
petits foks, if her young friend was not just a trifle stupid. 

“ She is as clever asyou andyour sister, and that is saying a good 
(leal,'* replied Louise Huprez, in the same undertone, “ but she has 
just suffered a great heart- blow, and that kind of thing is not cal- 
culated to make anyone particularly lively.*' 

This was enough for Marcelline, who was very tender-hearted. 
She went back to her seat next Hilda, and took her hand at the first 
opportunity. 

“ I hope we are going to be great friends," she murmured, “ al- 
though you and Mathilde will have more in common. 1 long to 
hear you sing. Mile. Duprez says you have such a lovely voice. 
But perhaps you are too tired to sing to-night?" 

“If you will excuse me," faltered Hilda, 

“ Of course, we will excuse you. You must be very tired after 
traveling all night. And 3^011 w^ere dreadfully seii-sick, no doubt?" 

“ J^so; 1 escaped that suffering. 1 am never sea- sick." 

“ Good heavens, is that possible? If 1 go but a little way on the 
sea, the least little w^ay, 1 suffer tortures, veritable agonies. And 
you others, you English, do not seem to suffer at all. You are a 
kind of sea-dogs, to whom waves and tempests are a natural ele- 
ment." 

“1 Wi,s brought up near the coast," answered Hilda. “ 1 have 
been out in all w^eathers." 

And then she thought of that wild, rock-bound coast on which she 
and Bothwell were to have lived, they two, all in all to each other, 
ineffably happy amidst simplest surroundings. She thought oJ the 
boat they were to have had — the cockle-shell row-boat in which 
the}^ were to have gone dancing over the waves from Tintagel to 
Boscastle, or by Trebarwith sands, shining golden in the sunliglit 
— in a bright world of life and clamor, the bird-world of gulls and 
cormorants, a winged populace, rejoicing in sea-foam, and light, 
and the music of the winds. She thought of the life that was to 
have been— the fairy fabric of the future, w^hich had seemed so 
beautiful and so real, and which her ruthless band had shattered. 

Had she done right in so surrendering that fair future? Yes, 
again and again yes. The level domestic life w'hich would have 
been so sweet to her as a woman, wmuld have been stagnation, a 
slow decay for an ambitious man. Her simple rustic rearing had 
prepared her for such a life. The monotony of a village existence 
was all sufficient for her narrower views, her more concentrated nat- 
ure. But Bothwell had seen the world, had lived in the thick of the 
strife; and it was most umiutural that he should resign all ambition, 
and live from day to day, working for his daily bread, like a laborer 


wyllard’s vyeird. 245 

in the fields. He was to do this for her sake, his sole reward her 
love. It would have been, indeed, a one-sided bargain. 

Hilda heard the light, airy talk around her— the talk about art 
and music and theaters, about the great world and its scandals, as 
in a dream. It was a world of which she knew nothing, and the 
conversation around her seemed as if it had been carried on in a 
kind of verbal hierogl3^pliic8. The French she heard to-night was a 
new language— made up of catch words and slang phrases — lines 
from new plays, words twisted into new meanings— in a word, the 
language of the Palais Royal Theater, and the Vie Parisienne. Hil- 
da listened and wondered most of ail when Mile. Duprez, that 
most classical and academical of speakers, showed herself perfectl}^ 
at home in this little language of Bohemian Paris. 

feidsmond Trottier was a favorite in the Tillet household. His 
visits were rare, and he never appeared before nine o’clock in the 
evening. He came nominally to tea, and the weak infusion of Bo- 
hea and the dainty little dishes of sweet cakes were always set forth 
at his coming; but the lefreshment he most cared for w^as absinthe, 
and a small bottle of that dangerous liquor and a carafe of water 
were always placed on the little table near the host’s arm-chair, and 
from this bottle M. Trottier supplied himself. That greenish hue 
of his complexion was the livery of the absinthe drinker, w’hose skin 
takes the color of his favorite stimulant. 

Trottier W’as dear to Eugene Tillet as a link with that brilliant 
past which was now but a memory. He liked to hear the journalist 
talk of the great men who had failed, the litile men who had suc- 
ceeded in art and lileratui’e. Strange that all the good men should 
have gone to the dogs, while all the little men had been pushing 
forward to the front. 

It was like a game at draughts, in which the white men seem to 
be winning wdth a rush, when somehow the black men edge in 
stealthily here and there, in front, behind, at odd corners, until 
those splendid white fellows are all pushed off the board. To hear 
Trottier and Tillet talk, it would seem as if the chief characteristic 
of true genius were an irretrievable bent toward the gutter. 

The journalist’s visits in the Rue du Bac were nevei long. He 
had to leave at halt-past ten in order to write his paragraphs for the 
next number of the “ Taon,” to be issued early next morning. 

Mile. Duprez took leave at the same time as M. Trottier, and the 
journalist offered to escort the tw^o ladies to their hotel, an arrange- 
ment which the Frenchwoman had foreseen. The street was very 
quiet at this hour, and as the pavement was narrow Mile. Duprez 
had an excuse for asking Hilda to walk a few yards in front, wdiile 
she herself talked confidentially with M. Trottier. 

“You no doubt think it is very strange that my .young fri(nd 
should be in Paris without her brother’s knowledge,” she said, ten- 
tatively. 

“ Life is so full of strange events that 1 have long left oft won- 
dering or speculating about them,” he replied, easily. “ 1 have no 
doubt Mees Effcott is a most charming young person.” 

“Ah, but I want you to know more about her thar that. I want 
you to understand that she is just as good as she is charming. She 
is brave, unselfish, noble, capable of self-sacrifice, and there are a 


246 


wyllard’s ayeird. 


good many charming girls who are none of these things. There is 
nothing underhand fn her presence in this city without her brother’s 
knowledge. 1, Louise Duprez, give you my word for that, and ask 
you as a favor tt» respect her secret.” 

“ 1 have already pledged myself to do that, cliere demoiselle. In- 
deed, 1 am not likely to see much more of Mr. Effcott. He wanted 
my help in a matter in which I W'as at first willing to aid him, but 
in* which 1 afterward saw peril to a man whom 1 had known and 
liked in the past.” 

‘‘ 1 wished you to know^ that Mr. Heathcote’s sister is in no way 
unworthy of her brother’s love and protection. She is here to 
break oft an engagement which would in all probability have ended 
unhappily.” 

” You need tell me no more. Your young friend is in very good 
hands. Madame Tibet is one of the best women 1 know — the 
true heart of motherhood beats under that broad chest of hers. She 
will take good care of your young friend in this dangerous city of 
Paris.” 

They parted at the entrance to the Bon Lafontaine, where 
mademoiselle and Hilda had two little bedrooms adjoining each 
other, and w^here Hilda slept a troubled sleep, worn down by the 
fatigue of her journey, but haunted by sad thoughts even in the 
midst of her slumbers.” 

She transferred herself and her few belongings to the Rue du Bnc 
next morning, and then went with Mile. Duprez to the Bon Marche, 
wdiere she bought all she w^anted, including two neat little ready- 
made gowns, one of gray alpaca, and the other of black caihmere, 
and a black velvet toque which gave her the true Parisian air. 

‘‘ It was very wise of you to bring so little luggage,” said made- 
moiselle approvingly. ” English gowns would have stamped you at 
once as an Englishwoman, and would have made people stare at 
you. In those neat little frocks you may pass anywhere unoberved. 
Except for your fair young face, which is brighter than the 
typical face of the boulevard,” thought Louise Duprez, W’ho did 
not care to praise her protegee too much. 

She only stayed to see Hilda fairly installed in her new home, and 
left Paris by an afternoon train wliich would take her to Havre in 
time for the evening boat. She would be at Southampton next 
morning and at Plymouth in the afternoon. Hilda went to the 
raib.vay station with her friend, full of gratitude for her kindness, 
kissing her with warmest thanks at parting. 

‘‘ Heaven knows w^hether 1 have done right or wrong, child, in 
helping 3mu,” said the Quixotic little w’oman, with a doubtful sigh. 
” ] have allow^ed myself to be guided by the instinct of my heart, 
and a woman’s heart is not always a wise counselor. If that young 
man of yours does not care for his w^ealthy widow, pm hasardy a 
nice mess 1 have helped you to make of two lives.” 

‘‘ But he does care for her. He loved her devotedly for three 
years. A man can not change all at once,” argued Hilda. ” And 
she is so handsome, so aristocratic — fascinating, no doubt, when she 
chooses. Bolhwell could not help loving her.” 

•‘Then he ought not to have pretended to love you,” retorted 
mademoiselle, severely. 


wyllard’s weird. 


247 


“ That was my lault,” said Hilda, with a sigh. 

The signal tor departure sounded, and the friends said good-b 3 ^ 
Matnilde had accompanied Hilda to the station, and had waited dis- 
creetly at a little distance during those last confidences. Tlie tW'O 
girls walked home ta the Hue du Bac together, Hilda fearing lest 
she should run against her brother at any moment. 

And now Hilda’s new life began in earnest, a life in a strange 
household, amidst new surroundings. She was to tiy and find con- 
solation in hard work, in her love of music — to create for herself 
new interests, if it were possible, while every moment of her life 
was haunted by the thoughts of the lover she had deserted, and the 
home that was to have been hers. 

She took her first lesson at the Conservatoire on the following 
morning, and the professor who taught her was very encouraging 
about her voice and taient. He told her she possessed an organ 
worthy of the highest cultivation, capable of the grandest develop- 
ment. He put aside the little German song which she had taken 
with her, and gave her a solo of Glucks. 

“ You were taught by Mademoiselle Duprez, 1 understand,” he 
said. “ An admirable women, quite an admirable manner— one of 
Garcia’s best pupils, and one of the few women capable of profiting 
to the uttermost of Garcia’s teaching. \ou have been taught in 
the best school, mademoiselle, and you have nothing to unlearn. 
That is saying a great deal. On the other hand, 1 need not tell you 
that you have a lot to learn. ” 

“lam sure of that, sir. 1 have come to Paris on purpose to profit 
by your instructions.” 

“ With a view to appearing in opera?” 

“ Oh, no,” exclaimed Hilda, blushing. “ 1 have no such lofty 
ambition. 1 only want to sing a little better than 1 do — to amuse 
my brother.” 

“ That is a very limited horizon.” 

“ And for my own pleasure in good music.” 

“ 1 see. Art for art’s sake. There are rery few nowada 5 ^s who 
care to work for art in the abstract. 1 shall oe very proud of such 
a pupil.” 

Hilda’s fresh young face— fresh in its youth — and innocence, even 
despite the settled sadness in the eyes— her blushes and simplicity, 
had fascinated the gray-headed singing master. Louise Huprez 
had hinted at Hilda’s story — a broken engagement, a girl’s first sor- 
row. He had been told that his new pupil was an English girl of 
good family, brought up in a remote province, inexperienced, pure- 
minded; and he who had for the last forty years been steeped in the 
vanities, vices, and falsehoods of the great garish city felt his heart 
drawn toward this graceful, gentle girl with her faint perfume of 
well-bred rusticity. 

“ You have a very fine voice, mademoiselle, and it is a great pity 
you aie not obliged to earn your own living,” he said, smiling at 
her, as he rose from the piano. “ 1 shall expect you to sing me 
that scene in first-rate style next Wednesday.” 


248 


WYLLAKD's WKIRD. 


CHAPTER XXYl. • 

REAPING THE WHIRLWIND, 

To be on the very threshold of Paradise, within the sound of 
celestial birds, and the perfume of celestial flowers, to be on the 
point of entering the blissful place, with heart full of hope and 
pride, and to have the gates suddenly slammed in one’s face, and to 
hear the voice of the angel at the gate crying, “Ye can notenter 
now,” would be perhaps to feel as Bothw^ell (xrnhame felt after he 
had read and read again that calmly worded letter in which Hilda 
Healhcote renounced him and his love. 

His senses staggered under the force of the blow. He cursed Va- 
leria Harboroiigh in the rage of his tortured heart. This was her 
work. This was the work of that serpent who had beguiled him to 
forfeit good faith and honor in the past, and w^ho wanted to ruin 
his life in the present. Those ideas of fortune, of a lofty ambition 
to be realized through Valeria’s aid, which Hilda put forth in her 
letter, hardly entered into his mind; but had Valeria been able to 
make him a prime minister or viceroy of India, by a motion of her 
hand, he would have caied for her no more than he cared foi her 
in her present insignificance, as a well-born widow with so many 
thousands a year. 

The infatuation which once lield him was a thing of the past, the 
glamour was over, the light extinguished. He looked back and won- 
dered that he could have ever been so enslaved, so poor a creature 
as to worship a thoroughly artificial woman. 

His first feeling about Hilda, after reading her letter, was one of 
anger. He told himself that this renunciation had another motive 
than that expressed in the letter. It was not in order to give him 
back to Lady Valeria that his betrothed revoked her promise. It 
w’as in order that she herself might escape from an engagement 
which for some secret reason had fecome distasteful to her. 

“ She draw’s back at the eleventh hour,” he said to himself. 
‘“Perhaps even at the last slie has begun to doubt me— -to believe 
that 1 may be after all the miscreant my kindly neighbors thought 
me— the murderer of a helpless girl. Who knows? That idea was 
rooted in her brother’s mind at the time. It may have transferred 
itself to her mind when she found herself on the eve of marriage 
with a suspected man. Women are given to curious fancies and 
caprices; and she — she whom 1 thought so brave, so noble, so 
straight— she, too, may have her crooked moments, lier waverings, 
and unstableness, like the rest of her sex.” 

He read the letter again— tried to project his mind into the mind 
of tlie writer, to look behind the words, as it were, and by sheer in- 
tensity of thinking to get at the hidden meaning of the writer. No, 
she was not the unstable being he had been inclined to think her in 
his first agony of wounded feeling. Xo, a thousand times no. 
4 his letter of hers had been written in all simplicity, in all honesty 
of heart and mind. She gave him up to another, believing that hib 


WYLLAKD’s M'ETIU). 


249 


happiness lay that way. And it was Valeria who had done this 
thing — Valeria who liad come between him and happiness. In his 
savage anger he felt inclined to rush oft to Plymouth, to lie in wail 
for that old idol of his — that false goddess with the feet of basest 
clay — to insult her before the face of society, to put some public 
inextinguishable slight upon her. 

JShe was a woman, exempt in her feebleness; and he cauld do 
nothino; except rage impotently at the thought of her iniquity, gnash 
his teeth at that inexcusable foolishness of his past life which had 
made him her slave. 

Her slave? !No, not her slave; that he would never be. Her 
victim, perhaps, yes. She might blast his hopes in their fullness; 
she might ruin his life; but she should never bend his neck to the 
yoke. 

Her money, her influence! My position as her husband! Are 
those the baits with which she tempts me to her net?” he said to 
himself. “ How little she knows me; how little she knows the 
value of a true woman when weighed against a false one. My true 
love is more to me than an empress. Millions would not buy my 
allegiance to her.” 

He went to the inn stables where Glencoe was at livery, and sad- 
dled the powerful beast with his own hands, in his eagerness to be 
on the way to Bodmin. Glencoe had enjoyed a day of leisure and 
meditation in a very dark staDle, and he left the little village of 
Trevenna in a series of buck-jumps, arching his via’orous back and 
sniffing the ground with his quivering nostrils, shying ferociously 
at every stray pig, and standing up on end at a vision of a donkey, 
until the corrective influence of the spur brought him to a better 
state of mind, whereupon he collected himself and settled into a 
grand rhythmical trot. 

The hunter was white with dust and foam by the time Bothwell 
rode him into the stable-yaid at the Spaniards; here nothing but 
disappointment awaited him. He heard that Miss Heathcote had left 
home early on the previous morning. One of the lads had taken 
her portmanteau to Bodmin Road, and she had walked there alone, 
in time tor the eight o’clock train for Plymouth, the boy believed. 
Mr. Heathcote had not yet returned from France. There was no- 
body at home except Miss Mej^erstein and the little girls. 

Bothwell asked to see Miss Meyerstein and was shown into the 
drawing-room, where that worthy woman soon came to him full of 
trepidation. Her eyelids were swollen with weeping, and her 
cheeks were pallid with care. 

“ Mr. Heathcote may think it my fault,” she said. ” 1 have tele- 
graphed to him, but there has been no answer yet.” 

” Do you know where Miss Heathcote w'as going when she left 
this house?” 

” 1 haven’t the faintest idea. All 1 know is what the boy told 
me. 1 have tried to make the best of things to the servants, for i 
don’t want them to suppose that Hilda was running away; but they 
must have their own idea about it, knowing as they do that she 
was going to be married next Tuesday.” 

“Never mind the servants,” said Bothwell, impatiently. “Let 
them think what the}" please. But have you no idea where she 


250 


WTLLARd’s AVEIRn. 

would be likely to go— to what friend — in what direction? She 
can not have so many triends from whom to choose in such a crisis. 
She would go to the house where she was most sure of a welcome, 
where she would know that her secret would be kept. What 
friends has she in Plymoulh?” 

“ None. She never went to Plymouth, except tor shopping, sight- 
seeing, conceris, or something in that way, with her brother, or 
with me. She knows no one in Plymouth except her old singing 
mistress.’' 

“ She may have gone to her.” said Botliwell, eagerl}^ 

” hardly likely. Mademoiselle Duprez lives in two rooms. 
Hilda would scarcely ask tor hospitality there. ” 

“I ilon’t know. She is very fond ot Mademoiselle Duprez. I 
have heard her say so. I'hat is a clew, at any rate. 1 shall go to 
Mademoiselle Duprez this afternoon. 1 must walk across to Peu- 
morval and see my cousin tlrst. She may know more ot Hilda’s 
plans than you do.” 

” That is very likely. Mrs. Wyllaid is Hilda’s most intimate 
friend.” 

” There was a lady came to call upon Miss Heathcote a few days 
ago,” said Botliwell. ” Did jmu happen to see that lady?” 

“ 1 did not,” answered the tritulein, looking at him curiously. 
” Yet i can but think that lady bad something to do wiih Hilda’s 
strange conduct. She is an old friend of yours, 1 believe — Lady 
Valeria Plaiborough.” 

“ Yes, 1 have known her for some years. Was she long with 
Hildar” 

” She was closeted with her for at least an hour, and from that 
time to this 1 have not seen Hilda’s face. She went to her room 
soon after Lady Valeria left. She excused herself from appearing 
at dinner on account of a headache, and when 1 w'eni to her room 
door later in the evening she refused to let me in, and 1 could hear 
from her voice that she had been crying. I went to her room again 
at seven o’clock next morning, tor my mind had been uneasy about 
her all night; but she was gone. 1 found two letters, one for Mr. 
Heathcote and one tor me.” 

” Would you be kind enough to show me the letter she wrote to 
you?” 

The frtlulein reflected tor a few moments, being an eminently 
cautious person, and then produced Hilda’s note from her pocket- 
book. 

‘‘ 1 do not think there can be any harm in showing it to you,” 
she said. ” There is so little in it.” 

The letter ran thus: 

” Dear Fraulein, — D o not be alarmed at my disappearance. I 
have good and sound reasons tor canceling my engagement with 
Mr. Grabaine— not because of any wrong act upon his part, but for 
motives ot my own; and I have decided upon leaving home for 
some lime as the best way ot getting over the ditiiculty. Pray let 
no fuss be made about this sudden change in my plans. Very tew 
ot our neighbors knew anything about the intended marriage, so I 
hope there will be less talk than there usually is under such circum- 


wyllaed’s weikd. 


251 


stances,. You need have no uneasiness about me, as 1 am going to 
act under the advice of a clever and experienced friend, and' 1 mean 
to be quite happy in my own way, amid new surroundings, and to 
carry out an old dssire of my heart. You shall hear of me directly 
1 feel myself at liberty to tell you more. Always lovingly yours, 

“ Hilda.’’ 

“ An old desire of her heart,” said Bothwell, slowly, staring at 
the letter, with the keenest mortificuliou expressed in his counte- 
nance. 

That cheerfulness which Hilda had assumed in her letter to I he 
governess smote her lover to the heart. A man’s mind is not subtle 
enough to cope with the subtleties of a woman’s conduct. Hilda’s 
chief aim in wTiting that letter had been to hoodwink the friiulein, 
to satisfy her with the assurance that she, Hilda, was going away 
from home in tranquil spirits and with hopeful views of the future. 
Bothwell saw in this cheery letter the evidence of a stony heart, a 
heart that had never loved liiin. 

” ‘ An old desire of her heart,’ ” he repeated, with a helpless air. 
” What can that mean?” 

” I haven’t a notion,” replied the fraulein, reflecting his helpless- 
ness upon her own commonplace countenance, ‘‘ unless it were that 
she has an idea of going on the stage. So many girls are mad about 
the stage nowadays And Hilda is so pretty. I know wdien we 
had private theatricals here last Christmas for the twins’ juvenile 
party, everybody was in raptures with Hilda’s acting. People told 
her "she would make a great sensation if she were to appear in 
London.” 

” People ^re a parcel of idiots,” cried Bothwell savagely. “ Y"es, 
1 remember the theatricals. I was at the party, you know. And 
there was a cub who made love to Hilda. Yes, 1 remember.” 

The cub in question was the eldest son of a neighboring land 
owner and heir to a fine estate, but Bothwell had looked on the 
innocent lad with abhorrence, even in those early days when his 
attachment to Hilda had been only in its dawn. 

” No, she would not think of going on the stage,” said Bothwell, 
after a pause, during which he had paced up and down the room 
two or three times in an agitated way; ‘‘that is impossible. She 
would not be mad enough for that. There must be something else. 
The desire of her heart. What can it mean?” 

The fraulein could not offer any suggeston, except that idea of 
the vV<tage. ” She is so uassionately fond of Shakespeare,” she said. 

‘ I have h('ard her recite the whole of Juliet and Portia without 
faltering. She has such a memory. T shouldn’t be surprised if she 
were to come out as Juliet at Covent Garden next week.” 

Mi?s Meyerstein’s sole knowledge of the London stage was de- 
rived from biographies of the Kembles and their contemporaries. 
She believed in the two patent theaters as existing facts, and thouLdit 
that Shakespearian debutantes were appearing and taking the town 
by storm peiiodically all the year round. 

”1 must go to Plymouth by the five o’clock train,” said Both- 
well, hurriedly. ” YVill you kindly let my horse stay in your stables 
and be looked after till to-morrow morning, Miss Meyersteio? X 


252 


wyllard’s weird. 


rode him over here at a rather unmerciful rate, and he’ll be all the 
better for a rest. 1 shall walk to Pcnn\orval, and get myself driven 
from there to the station. Good-by.” 

He had gone before the fraulein could answer him; but that 
good-natured person rang the bell* and requested that Mr. Grahame’s 
horse might be taken care of for the night, and that anything he 
required might be given to him. 

Bothwell found his cousin full of sympathy, but as unable to give 
him any advice or assistance as Miss Meyerstein had been. To Dora 
he opeiied his heart fully, showing her Hilda’s letter and breaking 
out every now and then into angry denunciations of Lad}^ Valeria. 

“Hush, Bothwell, don’t be so violent,” pleaded Dora, putting 
her hand to his lips. ” 1 agree with you that it was a wicked thing 
for Lady Valeria to do— to put forward her own weakness in the 
past and your wrong-doing as a claim upon you in the present. 1 
can underslanil poor Hilda’s conduct. She was only too ready to 
believe that you must care more for Lady Valeria than for her.” 

” Help me to find her, Dora, that is all 1 want. 1 will soon teach 
her which it is 1 love best. . But 1 don’t believe she really cared for 
me. She had some other fancy— some other dream.” 

” No, Bothwell, no.” 

” 1 have seen it in her own handwriting,” said Bothwell, moodily, 
and then he told his cousin of that letter which Hilda had written 
to the frauelin, and that curious phrase about ” an old desire of her 
heart.” 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

HOW SUCH THINGS END. 

“An old desire of her heart,” repeated Dora, wonderingly. 
“ What could that be? I am sure she had but one wish in this 
world, and that was to make your life happy.” 

‘‘ If that had been so, if she had been single-hearted, she wmuld 
not have been so easily frightened away from me,” argued Both- 
well. “ She would have laughed Lady Valeria to scorn, strong in 
the power of her own love. No, it was because she was half-hearted 
that she gave way. There was this old desire of her heart, which 
could only be gratified by throwing me over.” 

“ Bothwell, you are unworthy of her when you talk like that.” 

“She has proved herself unworthy of me,” retorted Bothwell, 
savagely. “ Perhaps, after all, it w^as that beardless cub, young St. 
John, she cared tor— an Etonian of nineteen, with a pretty face and 
missish manners. Perhaps it was of him she was thinking wdien 
she wrote about an old desire of her heart.” 

“ Bothwell, I am ashamed of you. Hilda’s heart is one of the 
purest and truest that ever beat in a woman’s breast. This very 
loolishncss in running away from her own happiness is only a new 
proof of her noble nature.” 

“ An old desire of her heart,” harped Bothwell; “ read me that 
rid^e if you can.” 

“*I. can only read it in oite way,” answered Dora, after a thought 


wyllard’s weird. 


253 


tul silence; ever so long before your return from India, Hilda liad 
an ambition to do something great in music. She had been told 
that her voice was of the finest quality, and only required severe 
training in order to become an exceptional voice. She wantea to go 
abroad — to Milan, Leipsic, Paris —she talked of different places in 
her castle-builtiing— and to give herself up to the study of music 
and the cultivation of her voice. The only difficulty was that as 
Mr. Heatlicote’s sister, and with an independence inherited from 
her mother, there was no excuse for her taking up music as a pro- 
fession, while it would have seemed unreasonable to leave her 
friends and her home merely to improve herself as an amateur. 
We often discussed this question together, and 1 used to advise her 
to abandon the idea of leaving her brotlier, whose life would have 
been altogether lonely without her. i told her that if ever Mr. 
Heathcote married again she would then be tree to do what she liked 
with her life. But, by and by, you appeared upon the scene, ami 
Hilda resumed her love for fox-hunting, and neglected her piano. 
After this, 1 heard no more of her yearning for a higher school of 
music than she could find in England.” 

“ Perhaps you are right,” said Both well, with a penitent look. 
” There is only one person to whom Hilda would be likely to go in 
Plymouth, and that is her old siuging-mistiess.” 

“Mademoiselle Duprez; yes, that is a person whom she wwld 
naturally consult,” answered Dora. “ 1 know all about Mademoiselle 
Duprez, a sweet little woman.” 

“ Dora, will you let' one of your people drive me to the station in 
time for the next train?” 

“ With pleasure. But you must have something to eat before you 
go. You look as if you had not had any lunch. ” 

“ I dare say I look very miserable. No, 1 have not been in (he 
humor for eating since.l got Hilda’s letter this morning. 1 walked^ 
half a mile to meet the postman in my impatience for my true love’s 
letter, and when it came it was a staggerer.” 

“ And you have ridden all the way from Trevenna, and have had 
nothing to eat?” 

“ I forgot all about it, but 1 will take a crust and a glass of wine 
before 1 start. Has Wyllard heard of Hilda’s disappearance?” 

“Yes; he has been very much troubled about it. He had set his 
heart on this marriage, and on its celebration while he is well 
enough to be present. God knows how long he may have strength 
enough to bear even as much fatigue as that. He is very angry 
with Hilda.” 

“ He must not be angry with her. It is my sin that has caused 
this miser 5 ^ 1 have sown the wind, and 1 have reaped the whirl- 
wind. You are very good to bear with me in my trouble, Dora.’' 

She was infinitely patient with him, sitting by him while he took 
a sandwich and a tumbler of claret, soothing him in his indignation 
against Lady Valeria, listening to his rerrorseful confession of wrong- 
doing in the past, bearing with that most tedious of all human creat- 
ures, an unhappy lover. But she had a sense of relief when he was 
gone, and she heard the dog-cart wheels rolling along the avenue. 
Her thoughts of late had been so concentrated upon her husband 


254 


WYLLAKD'S WEIKD. 


and his suffering that it was pain fill to be obliged to think of any- 
thing outside that sick room and its sadness. 

Bothwell found only disappointment at Plymouth. The little 
maid servant had been tlioroughly coached by Mile. Dupr< z before 
she left, and had been warned against any mention of Miss Ileatlicote. 

She taced Bothwell with a stolid countenance, prepared for any 
enormity in the way of false statements; for she was one of those 
faithful creatures who, although the soul of truthfulness upon their 
own account, will lie valiantly to serve those they love. She said 
that ifflle. Dupfez had s:one away on business. 

“ \Yas she alone?” asked Bothwell. 

‘‘ Y es, sir.” 

” YTou are quite sure of that?” 

” Quite sure, sir.” 

” But she was to meet some one at the station, perhaps. There 
was some one going away from Plymouth with hei.” 

” 1 think not, sir. 1 feel sure mademoiselle* would have told me 
if there had been any one going with her.” 

” When was Miss Ileatlicote last here?” asked Bothwell abruptl3^ 
” Y'ou know Miss Ileathcote — a pupil of mademoiselle’s~a young 
lady from Bodmin?” 

The Lurl put on a countenance of profound thought, as if she were 
calling upon her memory for a stupendous effort, looking back into 
the night of ages. 

” I’m sure 1 can’t say, sir: but it was along time ago — quite 
early in the summer.” 

‘‘ You are sure she was not here yesterday?” 

” Oh, yes, sir. Ylademoiselle left Plymouth a week ago, and 
nobody called yesterday.” 

” Oh. she left Plymouth a week ago, did she, and nobodj'- called 
yesterday?” repeated Bothwell, with despairing helplessness, at 
which the slavey’s heart smote her. 

It seemed a cruel thing to deceive such a jiice looking, outspoken 
gentleman — about his young lady, too — for it was evident to Mary 
Jane that Miss Ileathcote must have been keeping company wiih 
this gentleman, and that she had broken off with him. L*f Mary 
Jane’s fidelity to the little Frenchwoman had not been firm as a 
rock, she would have given away at this poiut, and told Bothwell 
the truth. 

” Kindly give me Mademoiselle Duprez’s address,” he said. ” I 
have very important business with her, and should like to telegraph 
immediatelv.” 

” Mademoiselle did not leave any address, sir.” 

” Not leave any address? A woman of business! But she would 
have her letters sent, after her, surely?” urged Bothwell. 

” No, sir. JMadcmoiselle did not wish her letters to be sent. She 
would be on the move, she said, and she would rather risk leaving 
the letters here than having them follow her from place to place. ’ 

Tliere was an aii of reality about these particulars that convinced 
Bothwell, whereby he showed his iiiexpeiience; tor liars always go 
into particulars, and prop up their falseness with a richness of detail 
rare in truthful statemeute, 


WYLLARD^S WKIRD. 


“ Then you really don’t know where Mademoiselle Duprez is to 
be tound?” 

“ JNo, sir; but 1 am expecting her home at any moment, as you 
may see. She miglit walk in while we are standing here.” 

” I wish she would,” said Both well. ” 1 want much to see her.” 

He left his card, and went away, cruelly disappointed. 

And now he set his teeth like a man wdio is going to meet his toe, 
as he turned his face toward that white- walled villa on one of the 
hills above the town^lhat fair and pleasant place where he had 
dawdled away so many summer afternoons, all the while wishing 
himself anywhere rather than in that Armida garden, feeling him- 
self a knave and a dastard for being there. He hated the place now 
with a deadly hatred. It seemed to him that those white w’alls Iimq 
been built of dead men’s bones, as if the house within and without 
savored of the charnel. 

The good old man — so fooled, so wronged by a false wife and 
false friend — was gone, lying at rest in the cemetery yonder, and 
Armida reigned alone in her enchanted garden. Boihwell walked 
to the villa at his fastest pace, hurrying on with bent brow, unob- 
servnnt of anybody or anything that he passed on his way, as if he 
would walk down the angry devil within him. But the devil was 
nit subjugated when Bothw’ell entered the classic portico. His livid 
co'intenanee, his gloomy eyes, scared the sleek young footman 
from his afternoon listlessness. 

Yv',s, Lady Valeria was at home. Bothwell was ushered into the 
shadowy drawing-room — a place of summer darkness, sea-green 
plush and tawny satin, an atmosphere of perfume. The vernada 
beyond the richl 3 ^-curtaiued windows was filled with exotics ; creamy- 
white blossoms were languishing in Venetian glass vases on tables 
and piano. A Japanese embroidered curtain draped the door of an 
inner room, and, as Bothwell entered, this curtain was lifted by 
those slender fingers he knew so well, and Valeria stood before him, 
very pale, seeming taller and slimmer than of old, in her black 
cashmere gown. She v;ore no crape to-day, only that plain black 
cashmere, silkilv soft, of densest, most funereal black, falling in 
straight folds from the graceful shoulders, clasped at the .throat with 
a large jet cross, the thin white arms showing cold as marble under 
the long, loose sleeves, which fell open from the elbow. The flow- 
ing draperies had a conventional air, as of an abbess of some 
strange order; but the uncovered head, with its coils of soft browm 
hair, was like the head of a Greek statue. 

Bothwell ulteied no word of greeting. He took Hilda’s letter 
from his breast-pocket, and handed it open to Lady Valeria. 

‘‘ This is your work,” he said. 

She read the letter slowly, deliberately, and not a sign of emotion 
stirred the marble pallor of her face as she read. She seemed to 
weigh every syllable. 

” A very sensible little letter,” she said. “ 1 did not think it was 
in Miss Heathcote to take so broad and generous a view of our 
position. She is a noble girl, and 1 shall honor her all the days of 
my life. She has cut the knot of a great d fticulty.” 

Bothwell looked at her half incredulously, as if he doubted his 
owu ears. 


WYLLAUD's WETUn. 




“ Do you suppose that 1 shall abide by this letter?” he asked, in 
harsh, husky toues, which made liis voice seem altogether unfa- 
miliar 10 Valeria, as if a stranger were speaking to her in Bothwell’s 
semblance. 

“Naturally, my poor Bothwell,” she answered, with her easiest 
air. “ 1 can not think that your engagement to this very good, com- 
monplace girl was ever more than fipis alter . l"()u were afraid of 

your position here, and it seemed to you that the only safety was in 
a respectable marriage. The young lady has a little money, 1 un- 
derstand, just enough to keep the wolf from the door, but not 
enough for any of the delights of life. And you told yourself that 
you would do penance for those happy days up at the hills, that 
you— you, Bothwell Grahame — would settle down into a grinder of 
mathematics. A curious fancy — like that of some knigiit of old 
who, after a youth of passion and storm, turns hermit, and vegetates 
in a cave. No, Bothwell, 1 do not for a moment believe that you 
ever seriously cared ior this country-bred girl.” 

” Your estimate of my feelings in this matter can be of very little 
consequence to either of us,” replied Bothwell, without relaxing a 
muscle of his moody countenance. ” It is Miss Heathcote 1 mean 
to marry, and no other woman living. You have stooped so low as 
to come between me and my plighted wife. Y’ou have put off my 
marriage, hindered my happiness, frustrated the desire of my heart; 
but nothing that you or any one else can do will lessen my love of 
the girl I have chosen. If 1 can not win her back, 1 shall go down 
to my grave a broken-hearted man. This is what you have done 
for me. Lady Valeria.” 

She was silent tor some moments, while she stood looking at him 
with her pale, fixed face, her large violet eyes, full of reproachful- 
ness. 

” This is what 1 have done for you,” she said, slowly, after a 
long pause. “ This is what 1 have done for you. 1 have tried to 
secure to you a life of independence, wealth, the respect of your 
fellow-men, wdio in these days have but one standard of merit — 
success. 1 have flung myself at your feet, wu'th all the advantages 
of my birth and fortune— friends who could help you— an assured 
position. I have offered myself to you as humbly as an Indian 
dancing-girl, have debased myself as low. made as little of my merits 
and my position. And all 1 have asked of you is to keep the solemn 
vows you made to me under those tropic stars we both loved, in that 
fair world where we were both so happy. 1 have asked you to be 
true to an old vow.” 

“ After you had released me from its obligations, Lady Valeria, 
after you had flung away the old love-token. Was not that an end 
of all things between us?” 

“ It might have been. 1 accepted my doom. And then fate 
changed all things. 1 was free, and there was nothing to hinder 
our happiness except your falsehood — your double falsehood. You 
were false to your truest friend, my husband, when you loved me; 
and now that you could love me with honor you are false to me.” 

” 1 am as God made me,” answered Bothwell, gloomily, ” weak 
and false in the days gone by, when my love tor you was stronger 
with me than gratitude or honor, but loyal and true to the girl who 


■VVYLLARt)’s WEIRD. 


257 


won me away from that false love. Shall 1 go back to the old love 
now because it is my inteiaist to do so? Oh, Valeiia, how you 
would despise me, how all good and true women would scorn me 
if 1 could be base enough to be false to that dejir engagement which 
redeemed me trom a false position, which set me right in my owm 
esteem and before my fellow-men. Granted that I have been weak 
and inconstant, that 1 have proved myself unworthy of the regard 
with which you honored me,” be went on, with a touch of tender- 
ness in the voice that had been so hard just now, moved to compas- 
sion perhaps by that pale, despairing look of hers, ‘‘ granted that 1 
am a poor creature, you can hardly wonder that my soul sickened 
against a tie which involved blackest treason against a good man, 
and my best friend; you can hardly wonder that 1 welcomed the 
dawning of a new love, a love which 1 could confess before the 
world, and on my knees to my God. That love meant redemption, 
blessing instead of cursing. And do you think that I am afraid of 
poverty, or hard work, or a life of obscurity, for the sake of luy 
true love?” 

‘‘ You have not changed your mind, then?” said Valeria, trying 
to be supremely cool, though the hectic spot upon that ashen cheek 
told of passion and anger. “ You mean to marry Miss Heathcote, 
and teach dull lads in a Cornish village for the rest of your life?” 

” With God’s help, 1 mean to win back the girl from whoiu you 
have parted me, to crasp once more that cup of happiness wddch 
you have dashed from my lips. 1 came here this afternoon to tell 
3^011 that your work has been only half successful. You have hin- 
dered my marriage, but you nave not changed the purpose of my 
life. Farewell, Lady Valeria, and 1 pray God that w^crd between 
you and me may mean forever.” 

“Farewell,” she answered, mockingly. “Farewell according 
to your deserts — truest, most generous of men.” 

She put her finger on the little ivory knob of the electric bell, and^ 
the sustained silvery sound vibrated in the silent house. Then with 
a haughty inclination of her head, she disappeared through the 
curtained archway as Bothwell left the room by the opposite door. 


CHAPTER XXVlli. 

ONE WHO MUST REMEMBER. 

Edward Heatitcote had been away from Paris when Miss 
Meyerstein's telegram arrived at the Hotel de Bade. He had gone 
on a journey of something over a hundred miles on the Western 
Railway, a journey undertaken with the idea of adding one more 
link to tile chain which he had been slowly putting together, one 
more chapter in the historv of Marie Pievol. 

He had been disappointed in those who were to have helped him 
in his task; and it was to his own patience and resources that he 
was for tne most part mdebted for such progress as he had made. 
Drubarde, the ex police officei*, had been able to do no more than 
supply the formal record of the evidence before the Jitge d' Instnic- 

9 


258 


WYLLARD'S AVETRD. 


tion. He could throw no li^ht upon the previous history of the 
supposed murderer: he could offer no clew to his subsequent fate. 

Sigisniond Trottier, from whose keen wii Mr. Heathcote had 
hoped for such valuable aid, had broken down altogether. He had 
failed to lurnish any fuither . reminiscences of his old acquaintance 
Georges. 

“ 1 want to know what the man was like,” said Heathcote, at 
their last interview. “ It you could put me in coinmunication with 
any artist fiieud of yours who knew Georges well, and can remem- 
ber him well enough to give me his likeness from memor}^ — were it 
the slightest sketch — I would pay your friend liberally for his work, 
and be very grate! ul to you for bringing the matter about.” 

”1 know no such man,” answered Trottier, curtly. 

‘‘ hat is very strange. Surely there must be some such person 
among those who can remember Georges. Y'ou say that his only 
friends were of the literary and artistic world?” 

” J^om d'nii nom'' exclaimed I'rottier, impatiently, ” I suppose 
1 had better be frank with you. Y"es, it is quite possible there may 
be some one who knew^ Georges, and who could give you such a 
sketch as you want. But ] will not help you to find that person. 1 
liked Georges— liked him w^ell, mark you. 1 have profited by his 
generosity, have gone to him for help when 1 was in very tow 
w’ater. 1 am not going to tuin and sling my benefactor. Granted 
that he was an assassin. 1 can find excuses even for that crime, for 
I know^ how he loved Marie Prevol. 1 am not going to help you to 
hunt him down. It he is alive and has repented his sin, let him 
alone, to be dealt wdih by his Creator and Judge. What are w^e that 
we should pretend to judge or to punish him?” 

” 1 have sworn to myself to find the last link in the chain.” 

‘‘ Why should you want to hunt this man down?” 

” That is my secret. 1 have a motive, and a very powerful one. 
It may be that I have no intention to betray the wretch to justice; 
that when the tangled skein shall be unraveled and the mystery of 
that man’s life made clear, that in the hour of success 1 may be 
merciful, may hold m}'^ hand, and keep the murderer’s secret from 
the outside world. But 1 want to know that secret, I want to be 
able to stand face to face with that man, and to say, ‘ You are the 
murderer of Marie Prevol and her lover; you are the murderer of 
the helpless girl who went alone to England, having in her possession 
certain papers which threw too strong a light upon you»’ guilty past. 
Y’ou who have held your head erect bcdore the world, and have 
passed for a man of honor and probity, you are the remorseless 
assassin, whose life stands twice forfeited to the law.’ ” 

Heathcote was pacing up and down the room, intensely agitated. 
He had abandoned himself wholly to the passion of the moment, 
forgetful ol Trottier’s presence, forgetful of all things except tlud 
one fixed purpose of his mind which had become almost mono- 
mania. 

” What would you gain by this?” asked Trottier, wondering- at 
this new aspect of hie English friend. 

” Bevenge! There is enough of the old Adam left in the best of 
us to make revenge sweet. What must it be to one who has lost 
the one delight that made life worth living?” 


wyllard's weird. 


259 


“ 1 can not help you to your re'^ensje,” answered Trottier. “ 1 
was fond ot Georges. I hope you may never be able to look in liis 
face and accuse him of the past. 1 hope he may be spared that 
shame. I can not for the life ot me undei stand wliy you should 
pursue a stranger with such deadly hatred.’' 

“ That is my secret, 1 say again. If you Mill not help me, so be 
it. 1 must go on working on my own account. But the face — the 
face — that is perhaps the only identificalion possible. The links ot 
the chain fall into their places— the facts that 1 have slowly gathered 
all point to one conclusion, but absolute identification is impossible 
until. 1 can find a portrait of the man who called himself Georges.” 

” You are not oftended with me, 1 hope?” 

‘‘ No, Trottier, 1 unaerstand your i\ lusal; 1 respect your loyalty 
to an old friend. But 1 must get the poll rail 1 want, somehow, 
without your help.” 

This ended all hope of help from Sigismond Trottier. Drubarde, 
on the other hand, had assured his client that he saw no new clew to 
thediscoveiy ot the missing murderer. If that murderer were indeed 
identical with tlie man who met Leonie Lemarque at Charing Cross 
— if he had surpassed himself in crime by the murder of that help- 
less girl, it was for the English police to hunt him down. With 
such a man as George Dislin to inspire their movements, the En- 
glish police— making due allowance for the dullness of a roshif eai- 
ing nation— ought to work wonders; and here was a case which 
offered the chances of distinction; here was an assassin going about 
red-handed, as it were, aftei a murder not three months old. 

‘‘ You expect me to find the murderer of Marie Prevol, a man 
who escaped us ten years ago; and here are your English police 
who can not find the man who threw Leonie Lemarque out ot a 
railway carriage last July. Is that common-sense, do you think, 
Mr. Ilealhcote? No, sir; in Paris 1 am on my own ground. 1 
know this great city from cellar to garret — her bridges, her subuibs, 
her quarries, her sewers, and caverns, and waste places, all the 
holes and crannies where crime and vice have hidden for the last 
forty years — but from the moment your criminal has got to the 
other side of the Channel, 1 wash my hands of him. My talents can 
serve no further.” 

Mr. Hcathcote recompensed the police officer handsomely for the 
very little he had done, and so they ])arted, 31. Drubarde vastly 
pleased with his client, hut still better f)leased with himself. He was 
a man whose benign consciousness of his own value in the social 
scale increased with years. 

Having been thus abandoned both his gifted coadjutors, Ed- 
ward Heath cote worked on by his own lights. There was one per- 
son, he told himself, who might be able to assist him — one person 
whose chief desire in life must be to see the murderer of 3Iarie Pre- 
vol aud her lover brought to bis donrii. Among the few scraps of 
information wliich Trottier bad given to bis friend, there was the 
fact thai the old Baronne de 3Iaurroix, the widowed mother of the 
murdered man, was still living. She resided at her chateau in Nor- 
mandy, where she led a life of strictest seclusion, devoting herself 
to acts of charit^^ and to the severest religious exercises. 

It was in the hope of obtaining an interview with this lady that 


360 


wtllard’s weird. 


Heathcote left Paris upon the ver}' morning on which the German 
governess telegraphed the news of Hilda’s flight. He had no letter 
of introduction; no credentials to ofiter to ]\lme. de Maucroix, ex- 
cept the one fact of his keen interest in the after fate of her son’s 
murderer. There was some audacity in the idea of so presenting 
himself before a venerable recluse of ancient family— a woman w’ho, 
according to Sigismond Trottier, had been distinguished in her 
3 miiih for pride and exclusiveness — a woman who had ranked her- 
self with the Condes and the Mortemarts, who had ignored the 
house of Orleans, and loathed the Imperial rule. 

The chateau of the Maucroix family was about five miles on the 
east ward side of Rouen. It was situate on a ground, a little way 
from the banks of the Seine— an imposing pile ot Gothic architecture, 
guraded by a moat, and approached by an avenue ot funereal yews. 
The surrounding landscape was flat and uninteresting. Tiie broad 
bright river, winding in bold curves, across the level meads, with 
here and there a willowy islet, gave a certain charm to scenery 
which would otherwise have been without a redeeming feature. Far 
off in the distance the chimney shafts and spires of Rouen rose dark 
against the gray (October sk 3 ^ 

Edward Hea'thcote felt the depressing influence of the low flat 
fields, the gloom of that dark avenue and sunless day. It seemed to 
him as if he were going into a grave, a place from whence life and 
hope had fled forever. 

He crossed the low stone bridge which spanned the moat, and 
found himself in an olcl-fashioned garden of that stately period 
which gave grandeur to the fountains and parterres of Versailles. 
Here, too, there w^ere large marble basins, Tritons and Nereids; but 
Ibe fountains w’ere not playing, there was no pleasant plashing ot 
silvery water-drops to break the dreary stillness of that deserted gar- 
den. Everyilring was in perfect order, not a withered leaf upon the 
velvet lawns or the smooth gravel paths. But eveir amidst this 
neatness there was a neglected look. No flowers brightened the 
dark border’s. There were only the gloomy evergreens ot a cent- 
urj^’s growth, some ot them p 3 Tamids of dark foliage, others cirt 
into fantastic shapes, an artistic eflort of tire gardeners of the past, 
which had been carefully preserved b}^ tire gai’deners of the present. 

A white-haired maitre d’hotel came out into the echoing hall to 
answer the stranger’s inquiries. 

“ Madame la Baronne is at home,” he replied, stifily. “ Madame 
rarely goes out of doors, except to her church, or, under peculiar 
circrrmstances, to her poor. Madame la Baronne receives no one 
except her priest.” 

” 1 hope that madarne will make another exception in my favor,” 
said Heathcote, quietly. ” Be good enough to take her thnt letter.” 

He had written to Mme. de Maucroix before leaving Paris, and 
he hoped that this letter would serve him as an “ open sesame.” 

” Madame, — For particular reasons of my own 1 am keenly desir- 
ous to trace the murderer ot your son, and, believing myself to be 
already on the right tr?cK, 1 venture to entreat the favor of an in- 
terview, I am an Englishman, of respectable birth and education, 


WYLLARD'S WEIRD. 261 

and 1 shall know how to respect any confidence with which you 
may honor me. 

“ Accept, madam, my respectful homage, 

‘ ‘ Edward Heathcote. ’ ' 

“ To the Baroness de Maucroix.'* 


CHAPTER XXIX 

LAST LINKS. 

Mr. Heathcote was shown into a room leading out of the hall, 
llie first of a suite of rooms opening one into another in a remote 
peispective. The doors were open, and the visitor could see to tlie 
end of the vista— the parquetted floors, with the cold light, 
refiected on their polished surface from the high narrow win- 
dows, the sculptured pediments above the doors, the ciystal 
girandoles, the somber-looking pictures— all had an old world air, 
and gave the idea < f a house which strangers visited now and then 
as a monument of the past, but which had long been empty of do- 
mestic life, and warmtli, and comfort. The far-off echo of his own 
footsteps startled Heathcote as he slowly paced the polished fioor. 

He had not long to wait. The maitre d'liotel appeared after about 
ten minutes’ interval, evidently astonished at the result of his mis- 
sion, and informed Mr. Heathcote that the baroness would see him. 

“ Madame ia Baronne is old and weak in health, monsieur,” said 
the servant, who had grown old in the service of his mistress, and 
who worshiped her. “ 1 hope your business with her is not of an 
agitating kind. She seemed much troubled by your letter. A vio- 
lent shock might kill her.” 

” There will be no violent shock, my friend,” replied Heathcote 
kindly, ” 1 shall be obliged to talk to Madame la Baronne of pain- 
ful memories, but 1 shall be careful of her feelings.” 

” 1 hope monsieur will pardon me for making the suggestion.” 

“With all my heart.” 

The old servant led the way up the wide semi-circular staircase lo 
a corridor above, and lo a suite of rooms over those which Mr. 
Heathcote had seen below. They passed through an anterooir, and 
then entered by a curtained doorw^ay which led into Madame de 
Maucroix’s sitting room, the only room which she had occupied for 
the last ten years. The salons and music-rooms, the library and 
caid-room on the lower fioor had remained enrpty and desolate since 
her son’s death. Her bed-chamber and dressing-room w^ere situated 
behind this small salon, and another door opened into the suite of 
apartments which had been occupied by her son. These she visited 
and inspected daily. They were kept in the order in which he had 
left them, on his last journey to Paris. Not an object, however 
trifling, had been changed. 

There were logs burning on the hearth, although the first chill 
winds of autumn had not yet been felt, but the baroness kept a fire 
in her room all the year round. The cheery blaze and a large black 
poodle, of almost super-canine intelligence, were her only compan- 


262 


WY LLAKD’fcj WEIKD. 


ious. On an exquisite little buhl table by her arm-cliaii lay her 
missal and her “ Imitation of Christ.” These two books were her 
onl}" literature. 

The poodle advanced slowiy across the Persian carpet to meet the 
visitor, and made a deliberate inspection. Tlie result was satisfac- 
tory, for he gave three or four solemn swines of his leonine tail, and 
then composed himself in a dignified position in front of the fire. 

The btironess, who was sealed in a de^ and spacious aim chair, 
acknowledged Heathcote’s entrance only by a dignified bend of her 
head. IShe was a woman of remarkable appearance, even in the 
seventy-fourth 3"ear of her age. Slie possessed that classic beauty of 
feature which time can not take awa3^ 'No matter that the pale, 
pure skin was faded from its jmuthful bloom, that the lines of care 
and thought were drawn deeply upon the broad brow and about the 
melancholy mouth, the outline of the face was such as a sculptor 
would have chosen for a Hecuba or a Dido. 

She was above the average height of women, and sat erect in her 
high-backed chair with a majestic air which impressed Edvvard 
Heathcote at once. Her plainly-fashioned black silk gown and In- 
dia muslin fichu recalled Delaroche’s famous picture of IMiiiie An- 
toinette, and her cast of countenance in somewise resembled that of 
the martyred queen. But the features were more perfect in their 
harmon}^: the outline was more statuesepie. In a word, the baron- 
ess had been lovelier than the queen. 

She motioned Mr. Heathcote to a chair on the opposite side of flie 
hearth. , 

“\ou are interested in tracing the muriierer of my son,’' she 
said. “ That is strange— after ten years — and you an Englishman! 
AYhat concern can 3’ou liave in the fate of that man?” 

There was the faintest quiver in her voice as she spoke of her 
son, otherwise her tones Avere clear and self-possessed; lier large 
dark e3^es contemplated the stranger with calmest scrutiny. 

‘‘That is in sornewu'se my seciet, madame,” rei>lied Heathcote. 
“ I w’ill be as frank with you as I can, but there are motives which 
I must keep to m3'self until tliis investigation of mine has come to 
an end— until I can tell you that I have fouml the murderer of 
Marie Prevol — that I have proof positive of Ids guilt.” 

” And then, monsieur? What then?” asked the baroness. 

” IMadame, it is perhaps you wdio should be the arbiter of the mur- 
derer’s fate, in the event of such evidence as ma3' he C{mcliisive to 
yon and me, being also strong enough to insure his conviction 1)3" a 
French jury. French jurymen are so merciful, madame, and 3^0111 
judges so full of sentiment, they would, perhaps, regard the death 
of those two young pi ople — slain in the very flower of their 3"Outh 
— as an outbr-eak of jealous feeliuL^ tor wldch the murderer was to 
lie pitied rather than punished. The law is alw’ays kmd to the 
sliedders of blood, it is the thii'f wdio steals a purse, or tire jour- 
nalist who 1)3" some carelessly edited pai'agrapli wounds the fine 
feelings of our aristocracy— for such as these tliat assail character 
there is no mercy. But in the event of my being able to And Hie 
assassin and to fuinisli conclusive evidence of his guilt, what would 
l)e 3"Our line of conduct, ma:luiiie‘^” 


wyllaud’s avetrd. 203 

The dowager was slow to reply. She waited with fixed brows, 
meditativ’e, absorbed for some moments. 

“ There was a time/’ she said at last, “ when 1 should have been 
quick to reply to such a questiou— wdien 1 thirsled for the blood ot 
my son’s murderer. Yes, when my pa: died lips longed to drink that 
blood as the savage laps the life-stream of his foe. But years have 
worked their chastening influence- -years given up to religious exer- 
cises, mark you, monsieur, not wasted upon the frivolities of this 
world. 1 have soaght lor consolation from no carnal sources. 
Pleasure has never crossed the threshold of my dwelling since my 
son’s corpse was carried in at my door. Some people try to forget 
their griefs; they steep themselves in the venalities of this life; they 
shut their eyes against the agonv of loss. 1 am not one of those. 1 
have nursed my sorrow, lived with it, lived upon it, until looking 
back it seems to me that, even in these long slow^ 5 ^eais of mourning, 
1 have not been actually separated from my dead son. In my prayers, 
in my thoughts, in my waking and sleeping, Ids image has been 
ever present, the most precious part of my existence. 1 believe 
that he is in heaven, that such prayers as have been breathed for 
him. together with the services of the cl.urch, must have shortened 
his time of purgation, that his purified soul is at rest in that blessed 
home where 1 hope some day to rejoin him. Confession, penance, 
moilificjitions of ail kinds have subjugated the natural evil in my 
character, monsieur. My cry tor vengeance lias long been dumb. 
If that crifel murderer yet lives I hope that he may be brought by 
suffering to repentance. 1 do not hunger for his tlealli.” 

There was such an air of loft}^ feeling, such absolute truth in the 
tone and manner of Mine, de Maucroix, that Heathcote could but 
admire and respect this cold serenity of grief. 

“ He has brought my gra^^ hairs in sorrow to the grave.” said the 
baroness, softly, “ but 1 have been taught to pity all sinners, as our 
Saviour pitied the worst and vilest, with inexhaustible compassion.” 

“ Madame, it you wdio so loved your son can be merciful, there is 
no one living who has a right to exact the murderer’s blood. And 
now forgive me if I venture to question you about that sad story. 
For the last month 1 have devoted myself to this case, lhaveslowdy 
put together the links of a chain of evidence until there is but little 
wanting to complete the circle. Tour knowledge may furnish me 
with those missing links. Tell me, in the first place, whether you 
believe — and have alwa 3 ^s believetl — that the man called Georges was 
the murderer of your son.” 

‘‘ 1 have never doubted bis guilt. There was no one else, no one 
whom my boy had ever offended. Remember, monsieur, he was 
but three-and-twenty years of age, amiable, generous, accomplished, 
beloved by all who knew him. He had not an enemy, except the 
man whose jealousy he had aroused.” 

” Did he know the man Georges?” 

” Unhappily, yes. Had he never known Georges, he would never 
have fallen in love wdth Mademoiselle Prevol. Georges was an in- 
timate friend of an artist whom my son bad patronized; a remark- 
ably clever painter, who twelve or thirteen years ago promised to 
become famous, but who never fulfilled that promise. My boy sat to 
this Monsieur Tillet for a half-length portrait— the man had a genius 


264 


wyllard’s wetrd. 

for portraits — and Tillet introduced him to the Bohemian circle in 
which Georges was living. It was a very small circle, consisting 
of about halt a dozen men in all, m'ostly journalists and painters. 
Georges appeared to have a liking for my son; his youth and fresh- 
ness interested him, he said, in a world where everybody'’ was 
blase. He invited him to little suppers of three or four intimates, 
at which Marie Prevol was present. From that hour my son’s head 
was turned. lie tell passionately in love with this actress. He 
thought of her by day and night, abandoned himself utlerl}'^ to his 
idolatry, desired ardently to make her his wife.” 

” He did not believe that she was married to Georges?” 

That was his ditRculty. In his love and reverence for her he 
could not endure to think of her as in a degraded position, yet if 
she were anything more than the mistress of Georges, my son could 
never hope to win her as his wife. In his mad, headstrong love for 
her, he was ready to forgive her past career, to redeem her from her 
degraded position, and make her the Baroness de Maucroix. He 
who had been educated in the pride of race as in the gospel was 
willing to marry an actress with a tarnished character!” 

” Did he make you the confidante of his passion, madame?” 

For some time he kept his scciei from me, but 1 knew that he 
w'as unhappy, and 1 knew that there was only one kind of grief pos- 
sible in such a life as his, w^here nature and fortune had been alike 
lavish of their gifts. He had been my companion and adviser from 
the day of my widowhood, and we were nearer and dearer to 
each other, and more in each other’s confidence than mothers and 
sons usually are. More than once 1 had entreated him to tell me 
the nature of his trouble, to let me help him it that were possible; 
and he had told me that there was no one but himself who could help 
him in the great crisis of his life. ‘ 1 must be either the happiest or 
the most miserable of men,’ he said. But one night I w ent into his 
room and found him ill, feverish, in a halt-delirious slate, raving 
about Marie Prevol. This broke the ice, and dining the brief ill- 
ness that followed—the eflect of cold, fatigue, excitement and late 
hours— I obtained his confidence. He told me the whole story of 
his love for this beautiful actress— how at their first meeting he had 
been enslaved by her exquisite loveliness, her indescribable charm 
of manner. He protested that her nature was purit}’' itself, despite 
her false position. She was the victim of circumstances. And then 
he told me that Georges spoke of her as his w ife, treated her with a 
respect rarely shos\n to wuinen of light character— and this thought 
that his idol was another man’s wife filled my unhappy son with 
despair.” 

‘‘You warned him of the danger of his position, no doubt, 
madame.” 

“ Kot once only, but aLmin and again. With all the fervor of a 
mother’s prayers did 1 implore him to escape from his fatal entangle- 
ment. 1 urged him to travel, to go to Spain, ltah% Africa — Algiers 
was at that time a favorite resort for men of fashion— anywhere so 
long as he withdrew himself from the fascination which could end 
only in ruin. But it was in vain that I pleaded. Pavssion w’a? 
stronger than common sense, duty, or religion. He was caught on 
a wheel from which he would not even try to extricate himself.” 


265 


WYLLAKU’S WEIRD. 

'* And your affection could do nothing?’’ 

Nothing. From that lime my son was lost to me. He shrunk 
from confiding in me, not because I had been severe—never had I 
breathed one uncharitable word against the woman he loved. His 
love made her sacred to me; but 1 had spoken the words ot com- 
mon sense. I had tried to stand between him and his own 
folly. That was enough. He loved his madness belter than beloved 
me, he who had been until that time almost anadorino son. When 
the lime came for us to come here for the autumn he refused to 
leave Paris, and 1 was too anxious to allow him to remain there 
alone. I stayed at our house in the Hue de TUniversite, where my 
son had his apartments, his private keys and private staircase, by 
'which he could come in at any hour without his movements being 
known to the household. 1 hardly know how he lived or what he 
did during those long days of July and August, while all our circle 
of acquaintance were away by the sea or in the mountains; and 
while we seemed to be alone in a deserted city. Several ot the 
theaters were closed during those months; but the Porte Saint 
Martin had made a great success with a fairy piece, and kept open 
for the strangers who filled Paris. 

1 believe that mv son went every night to the theater, that he 
saw Mademoselle Prevtd at every opportunity, and that his only 
motive in life was his love for her. For me the days went by in 
dull monotony. A presentiment of evil oppressed me, which, waking 
or sleeping, hung over me like a cloud. Long before the coming of 
the calamity 1 felt the agony of an inevitable grief. 1 knew not 
what form my misery would take, but 1 knew that my boy was 
doomed. When they brought home his bleeding corpse in the sum- 
mer evening, four-and-twenty hours after the murder, Imet the mes- 
senger of evil as one prepared tor the worst. 1 had lost him long 
before his death.” 

She spoke with supreme composure. She had familiarized herself 
with her sorrow, lived with it, cherished it, until grief had lost its 
power to agitate. Not a tone faltered as she spoke ot that tragical 
past. Her countenance was as calm as marble Every line in the 
noble face spoke of a settled sorrow, every line had become unalter- 
able as the lines of a statue. 

“ You say, madame, that the, painter. Monsieur Tibet, was upon 
intimate terms with Georges,” said Heathcote. “ Is this Monsieur 
Tillet still living?” 

“ 1 believe so. 1 never heard of his death. He has clever sons 
whose names are before the public. I have heard people mention 
them, though 1 have never seen their works. My knowledge of 
secular art and literature ceased ten years ago.” 

“ 1 should be very glad lo find Monsieur Tillet,” said Heathcote. 
” He is the very man 1 want to discover — a man whose pencil could 
recall for me the face of the missing Georges. You say, madame, 
that he was an intimate friend of Georges, and that he was a clever 
portrait-painter. Such a man would not have forgotten his friend’s 
face.” 

If you knew what Georges was like, do you suppose you could 
find him?” asked the baroness, without eagerness, but with a grave 
intensity, which accentuated the severe lines of her countenance. 


306 


wyllakd’s weird. 


“ Y cs, ” repUed Heathcote. “ I believe!* that in four-and-twenty 
hours 1 could lay my hand on the assassin’s shoulder and say ‘ Thou 
art the man.’ ” 

“ In tour-and-twenty^ hours. There is a distance then between 
you. The man you suspect is not in Paris.” 

” No, he is nut in Paris.” 

” And it, by any means of Monsieur Tibet’s art, you are able to 
assure yourscif of his ideutit)^ how will you deal with him? Would 
you deliver him up to justice?” 

‘‘ Ah, madame, who knows. Our areal poet has said that there is 
a divinity which shapes our ends — not as wo have planned them. 
If the assassin of your son is the man 1 believe him to be, he is al- 
read}^ punished. He is a doomed man. Joy and hope and comfort 
are now dead for him. The criminal court and the .aoillotine could 
be no harder ordeal than the pain of his daily life. It he is guilty, 
heaven has not been blind to his sin. The Eternal Doomsman has 
pronounced his sentence.” 

A faint flush illuminated the settled pallor of Mine, de Maucroix’s 
countenance, ‘a light sparkled in her eyes. 

‘‘ 1 knew that he would not escape,” she said, in a low voice. 
“ Heaven is just.” 

” If you \vil] kindly give me Monsieur Tibet’s address, madame, 
1 should be deeply obliged.” 

” 1 can only tell you an address of ten years ggo. Monsieur Tibet 
lived then in the Rue Saint (Juibaume. He was then in the flush of 
success, and L have heard my son say that he had a handsome apart- 
ment. Where he may live now in his decadence 1 know not. But 
his sons are known, and you will have no difficulty in getting infor- 
mation.” 

” 1 apprehend not, madame. And, now, if you will permit me, 1 
would ask one more cpiestion.” 

” As many as you please, monsieur.” 

“Have you in your possssion any scrap of Georges’s writing- 
any note, however brief?” 

“ No. There w^as no such thing found among my boy’s effects. 
The police requested that such a lei ter or letters should be looked 
for. They, too, w^ere anxious to jKOCure a specimen of the sus- 
pected man’s writing; but, although 1 looked most carefully through 
all my son’s papers 1 discovered no such letter. There were two or 
three notes from Tibet conveying invitations from Georges, but 
there was no direct communication from the man himself.” 

“ He was doubtless a man who had taken the old saying to 
heart,” said Heathcote. Liter a scrij)ia manet. 1 have to thank 
you, madame, for j^our graciqus reception, and, above all, for your 
candor.” 

“ In a life like mine, monsieur, there is no room for untruthful- 
ness or hypocrisy ]\Iy existence moves in too narrow a circle, t 
have no interest outside my son’s grave, and my own hope of salva- 
tion. Perhaps, before you leave this house, you would like to see 
the apartments in which Maxime lived. They have been kept just 
as he left them when he went back to Paris after the shooting 
season.” 


wtllard’s wrtrd. 267 

”1 should like much to see Ihcm,” said Refdhcote, staudinir hat 
in hand before the baroness. 

It seemed to him that she liad a melancholy pleasure in dwelling 
on the image of her murdered son; that it would gratify her to 
show the room which he had inhabited, even to a stranger. 

The baroness rose, a tall erect figure, dignified and graceful in 
advanced age as she had been in the bloom of her beauty, when 
Chailes X. was king. She npove.l with slow and stately steps to- 
ward the door at the end of her Mon^ and led the way into the ad- 
joining room. 

It was a large room, richly furnished, and full of such luxuries 
as a young man loves. Dwarf book-cases lined the four sides of 
the room. On one side, above the array of richly-bound volumes, 
appeared a costly collection of arms, both modern and antique. 
I'he fireplace was a kind of alcove, furnisheil with luxurious seats, 
upholstered in copper-red velvet. Old tapestry, old miniatures, 
bronzes, curios of all kinds filled the room with endless variety of 
form and color A tapestry curtain screened the door of the adjoin- 
ing bed-chamber. The baroness drew aside the heavy tapestry with 
her wasted hand, and led the stranger into the room where her son 
had slept through so many peaceful nights in his happy youth. 

A carved ivor}^ crucifix of large size, a chef d' oeuvre, yellow with 
age, hung over the pillow on which that young head had so often 
slumbered. The attenuated form of the Redeemer showed a pallid 
figure against the olive velvet draperies of the bed. Ileatbcote ob- 
served that the Persian rug beside the bed was worn in the center 
as if with much use, arid he coukl guess whose knees had left the 
trace of pra3^ertul hours upon the fabiic, as lie saw the eyes of the 
dowager fixed upon that pale figure of her martyred Saviour. 

“ 1 have lived half my days for the last ten years in this room,” 
she said, quietly. “ 1 hope to die here. If 1 have sense and knowl- 
edge left me 1 shall creep here when 1 feel that my last hour has 
come.’* 

Over the mantel-piece hung Maxime de Maucroix’s portrait, the 
picture of a bright young face, perfect in form and coloring, but 
most beautiful on account of the look of hope and gladness that 
shone in the sunny eyes, the frank, clear outlook of an untainted 
soul. Heathcote could understand the fascination exercised over a 
woman like Marie Prevol by such a man as this, with all the ad- 
juncts of rank, talent, wealth, and happiness. 

They went back to the baroness’s salon, and Heathcote took his 
leave, to return to Rouen, wheie he stayed the night. He went back 
to Paris the next day, and found Miss Meyerstein’s telegram, and 
with it Hilda’s long and explanatory leth r. The girl expressed her- 
self so temperately, with such firm resolve, such generous feeling, 
that her brother could not find it in his heart to be angry with her 
for what she had done. He had never desired her marriage with 
Bothwell Giahame; he desired it least of all now\ Wedding-bells 
would have been indeed out of tune with the dark purpose for 
which he was working. He had yielded at Dora Vfyllard’s en- 
treaty; he had yielded because his sister^s happiness had seemed to 
be at stake. But now that she had of her own accord relinquished 
her lover, he was not inclined to interfere with her decision. 


268 


wyllard’s weird. 


Nor was he alarmed at Miss Meyerstein’s tele^^ram, informing 
him of nilda’s departure in the early morning. His faitli in his 
gister’s common sense and seriousness was of the strongest. The 
tone of her letter was not that of a girl who was bent upon any wild 
or perilous course of action. He felt assured tliat she would do 
nothing to bring discredit upon her name or her family, and that if 
it pleased her to disappear for a little while, so as to give her lover 
the opportunity of jilting her in a gentlemanlike manner she might 
be safely intrusted with the management of her own life. 

She was w'ell provided with money, having the check wiiich ‘her 
brother had sent her a few days before her flight. There was there- 
fore no ground for uneasiness at the idea of her helplessness among 
strangers. A girl of nineteen, sensibly brought up, and with strong 
self respect, and two hundred and fifty pounds in her possession, 
could hardly come to grief anywhere. 

“ 1 wish she had taken her maid with her,’’ thought Ileathcote, 
an this was almost his only regret in the matter. 

for not a moment did he doubt that Bothwell would take advan- 
tage of his recovered liberty, and go back to his old love. Hilda 
had dwelt in her letter upon Valeria’s grace and distinction, her 
fortune, and the position to which she could raise her husband. 
Edward Heathcote did not give Bothwell credit for the strength of 
mind which could resist such temptations. A weak, yielding 
nature, a man open to the nearest influence — that was how he 
judged Bp' h well Grahame. 

He remembered the young man’s conduct at the inquest, his reso- 
lute refusal to say what he had done with his time in Plymouth, 
rather than bring Lady Valeria’s name before the public. That 
dogged loyalty had argued a guilty love; and could Healhcote 
doubt that when called upon to choose between the old love, and all 
its surrounding advantages, and the new love, with its very modest 
expectations, Bothwell would gladly return to his old allegiance? 

Assured of this, Heathcote was content that his sister should live 
down her sorrow after her own fashion. Bettei, he thought, that she 
should take her owm way of bearing her trouble; just as he himself 
had clone in the days long gone, when the light of his life had been 
suddenly extinguished. It was not in sluggish repose that he had 
sought the cure for his grief, but in work, and in movement from 
place to place. He remembered Hilda’s often expressed desire to 
study at one of the great musical academies of the Continent, and 
he thought it very likely she had gone to Florence or Milan. Ho 
had seen iMlle. Duprez and Hilda putting their heads togetlier, had 
heard the little woman protest that such a voice as Hilda’s ought to 
be trained under an Italian sky. He could read some such purpose 
as this between the lines of his sister’s letter. This being so, he 
w^as content to let things take their course, more especially as his 
own mind was full of another subject, and his own life was de- 
voted to another purpose than runtdng after a fugitive sister. He 
wrote a reassuring U tter to poor Miss Meyerstein, and he waited 
patiently lor further tidings from Hilda. 

His first business after his return to Paris was to find Eugene 
I'illet, the portiait painter, lie had noticed the signature of Tillet 
on some of the illustrations in the “ Petit Journal,” and he inquired 


■wyllard’s weird. ' 269 

at tlie office of that paper for the artist’s address, and for other in- 
forrnntion respecting him. He was told that JVI. Tillet lived in the 
Rue de Bac, with his father and mother, and that he was one of a 
numerous family, all aitistic. His father was Eugene Tillet, who 
had once been a fashionable portrait painter, but who had diopped 
out of the rac3, and was almost entirely dependent on the industry 
of his sons and daughters. 

This made things easy enough, it would seem; but Heathcote re- 
membered his failure with Sigismond Trottier, and he feared that 
in Eugene Tillet he might perhaps encounter the same loyal regard 
for an unfortunate friend. Again, Tillet might have been warned 
by Trottier, and might be on his guard against any act which could 
beli*ay the assassin whom he had once reckoned amon^j his friends. 

It was certain that the painter would remember his friend’s face; 
it was likely that he had some likeness of the missing man in his 
sketch-book. He was out-at elbows, idle — a man content to live 
luxuriously on the labor of others. Such a man would be peculiarly 
open to pecuniary temptation. He had begun with brilliant suc- 
cesses; had ended in failure and obscurity. Such a man must have 
suffered all the acutest agonies of wounded vanity, and he would be 
therefore easily moved by praise. 

Arguing thus with hiiiiselt during his walk to the Rue de Bac, 
Mr. Heathcote arranged his course of action. He w'ould approach 
M. Tillet as an amateur, a collector of modern art, and ^u)uld offer 
to piircluise some of his sketches. This would lead naturally to an 
inspection of old sketch-books, and to confidences of various kinds 
from the painter. 

As a lawyer and a man of the world Edward Heathcote considered 
himself equal to the occasion. 

It was three o’clock in the afternoon when he rang the bell on 
the second floor of the house over the glover’s. The honne wdio 
answered his summons informed him that M. Tillet, pere, was at 
home. Everybody else was out. The ci-devant portrait painter 
was smoking the pipe of peace the famdy hearth, a human 
monument of departed ambitions, bright hopes that had melted into 
darkness softly and slowly like the red light of a fusee. 

He yawned as he rose to receive his visitor. He stood in front 
of the hearth, tall, long-limbed, slouching, slovenly, but with a 
countenance that still showed traces of intellectual power, despite 
the evident decadence, physical and mental, of the man. His com- 
plexion liad the unhealthy pallor which indicates a life spent within 
four walls; and already that pallor was assuming the sickly green- 
ish hue of the absinthe drinker. 

“ I have to apologize for intruding upon you without any intro- 
duction, Monsieur Tillet,’’ began Heatbeote, taking the seat to 
which the painter motioned him, “ but although 1 have neither card 
nor letter, 1 do not come to you entirely as a stranger. 1 was 
yesterday with Madame la Baronne de Maiicroix, a lady whom you 
must remember, as her son was once your friend.” 

” Madame de Maucroix, poor soul,” muttered the painter, *' 1 am 
not likely to forget her. 1 believe that portrait of mine has been of 
more comfort to her than anything else in the world since her son’s 
unhappy death.” 


270 


WYLLARd’s WETRI). 


“ It is a remarkable portrait,” saiCl Ileathcote, with enthusiasm. 

JTo was careful to show neither interest nor curiosity about the 
circumstances of JVlaucroix’s death. He was there in the character 
of an amateur, interested solely in art. 

It is one of the finest pictures 1 ever saw,” he went on. 
‘‘Neither Reynolds nor Gainsborough ever painted anything 
better. ” 

*' Monsieur is too good. Y"our English painters have produced 
some very fine portraits. There are heads of Gainsborough and 
Reynolds which leave very little to be desired, though the treatment 
of the arms and hands is sometimes deplorably flimsy. Your others 
have not the realistic force of the Paris school. Y’our Millias has 
tremendous brio, but he paints with a butter-knife. Y'our Leiuhion 
has giace and a keen feeling for beauty, but he is cold and shadowy. 
So jmu saw my portrait of poor De Maucroix? Y’es, 1 think it was 
in my best manner, but it was in the portraiture of women that 1 
was seen at my best. 1 have been told by too partial judges that 
the head over the escritoire yonder is worthy of Titian.” 

” It is an exquisite piece of color,” answered licatUcote, rising to 
scrutinize the unfinished duchess. 

” 1 was a genius when 1 painted that picture,” said Tibet, with 
a moody look, ” but it is all past and done with. 1 am glad to think 
you appreciated my portrait of the Baron de Maucroix, a splendid 
subject, a fine young fellow. May 1 ask the name of my gracious 
admirer?” 

‘‘ My name is Heathcote,” said the visitor, laying his card upon 
the table in front of M. Tibet. 

The painter stared at him with a look of extreme surprise. 

” Heathcote,^’ he repeated, and then examined the card. 


CHAPTER XXX. 

A SKETCH BUiOM MEMORY. 

‘‘ You seem surprised at the mention of my name,” said Heath- 
cote, ” have you ever heard it before to day?” 

'i’he painter had recovered himself by this time. He told himself 
that his visitor was in all probability Hilda’s brother, and that it 
was his duty to his fair young friend to conceal the fact of her resi- 
dence under that roof. 

He was capable of so much perspicuity as this, but he w^as quite 
incapable of prompt action. He was too listless to make an excuse 
for leaving his visitor in order to put the servant on her guard, and 
so prevent Hilda’s appearance before Mr. IRathcote’s departure. 
Tlie chances w^ere, thought Tibet, that the visit would be brief, 
while, on the other hand, Hilda had gone to the Conservatoire, and 
was not likel}^ to return tor some time. 

Having argued thus with himself, the painter was content to trust 
to the chapter of accidents, which had been of late years the princi- 
pal chapter in the history or his life. 

” if you don’t mind smoke,” he murmured, with a longing look 
at his cigarette-case. 


wtllakd’s weird. 


-zn 


1 am a smoker myself, and I delight in it.” 

Oq this, M. Tillet offered his case to the En^^lishman, and lighted 
a cigarette for himself. 

“ Yes, 1 liave heard your name before,” he said, slowly and re- 
flectively. ” 1 think it must have been my friend Troltier, Sigis- 
niond Trottier, one of the contributors of the ‘ Taon.’ He has men- 
tioned an English acquaintance called Heatlicote. Perhaps you are 
that gentleman.” 

” \es, 1 know Trottier,” answered Heatlicote, far from pleased at 
finding that the painter and the paragraphist were on triendly terms. 

It was not unlikely that Trottier had warned his friend against 
answering anv inquries about Georges. 

” Then 1 think you must have heard a good deal about me,'' said 
Eugene Tillet, with a satisfled smile. ” Trottier knew me when 1 
w^as in the zenith of my power— glorious days— glorious nights 
those. The days of Gautier and Gustave Planche, Villemessant, 
Koqueplan, Xavier Aubryet, the days when there w'ere wdts in Paris, 
monsieur. Ah, you should have seen our after midnight cenacle at 
the Cafe Riche. Plow the pale dawn used to creep in upon our 
talk, and how we defied the waiters, when betw^een two and three 
o’clock they tried to pul out the gas and get rid of us. I remember, 
how one night we all came with the ends of candles in our pockets, 
and when the waters began to lower the gas, lit up our candles, a 
veritable illumination. They nera tried to put out our lamps after 
that. Yes, those were glorious nights, and art was honored in those 
days. There was a man called Georges, a PYcnch-Canadian, I be- 
lieve; a man of large fortune and splendid brains— he came to a bad 
end afterward, 1 am sorry to say”— this with airiest indifference. 
” Pie used to give little suppers at the Cafe de Paris or the Maison 
d’Or, suppers of half-a-dozen at the most— banquets tor the gods. 
1 was generally one of the circle.” 

You painted this friend of yours, no doubt,” suggested Heath- 
cote, “ this Monsieur Georges?” 

” No, he had a curious antipathy for sitting for his portrait. 1 
wanted to paint him. He had a fine head, highly paintable. A 
fine, picturesque head, which was all the more picturesque on ac- 
count of a particularly artistic wig.” 

‘‘ Do YOU mean to say that he wore a wig?” 

” Habitually. He had lost his hair in South America after a se- 
vere attack of fever, and it had never grown again. lie wore alight 
auburn wig, with hair that fell loosely and carelessly over his fore- 
head, almost touching his eyebrow^s. The style suited him to per- 
fection, and the wdg was so perfect that 1 doubt if any one but a 
painter or a woman wmuld have detected that it was a wig. He 
dressed in a careless semi-picturesque style — turn-down collar, loose 
necktie, velvet coat, and with that lung hair of his he had altogether 
the air of a painter or a poet.” 

” And you never painted him?” 

” Never. 1 have sketched his head many a time from memory, 
lor my own amusement, both before and after his disappearance, 
but he never sat to me. 1 ‘'might have made money by giving the 
police one of my sketches, when they w ere trying to hunt him down 
as a suspected murderer, but 1 am not a J udas, to betray the friend 


WYJLLAKDS WEiKD. 




at whose tabic I have eaten,’’ said the painter, whose Scriptural 
knowledge was derived solely from the old masters, and who re- 
garded the disciple’s ciirae (rom a purely social point of view. 

Heathcote was careful to show the least possible curiosity about 
the vanished Georires. He listened with the air of a man who is 
charmed by a delightful conversationalist, who admires the racon- 
teur, but who has no personal interest in the subject of the dis- 
course. And Eugene Tillet was accustomed so to talk and so to be 
heard. He was an egotist of the first water, and was not a close 
observer of other people. 

Heathcote was now assured of the one fact which' he wanted to 
know. The painter had made numerous sketches of his friend, and 
no doubt had some of those sketches still in his possessiv.n, as they 
would have had little value for the dealers. The question now was 
to get at his sketch-books as quickly as possible. 

“The mention of 3^our sketches recalls the object of my visit, 
which your very delightful conversation had made me almost for- 
get,’’ said Heathcote. 

Eugene acknowledged the compliment with a smile. 

“ I am very anxious to become the possessor of a few of youi 
sketches in black and white, color, pencil — what you will. Tiiere 
is no kind of art that 1 love better than those first airy fancies of 
the painter’s mind, those jottings of inspiration. 1 am the possess- 
or of a few very nice things in that wa.y ” (this was strictly 
true), “ sketches by Mulredy, Leslie, Maclise. and many other of 
our English artists." 1 should much like to add yours to my collec- 
tion.” 

Eugene Tibet’s sallow cheeks flushed faintly at the compliment. 
It was very long since any one had offered to buy the work of his 
brush or his pencil. It was very long since he had touched money 
of his own earning. And here was an English milord, an enthusi- 
astic simpleton, ready to give him jjold and silver for the sweepings 
of his studio. His pale cheeks flushed, his faded eyes kindled at 
the thought. His hands w?re tremulous as he unlocked a cuplmard 
and drew forth three or four dusty sketch-books from tlie place' 
where they had lain for the last ten years neglected, forgotten, 
counted as mere lumber. 

His hand had long lost its cunning, and, in that slough of despond 
in which he had gone down, he had lost even the love of his art. It 
has been said that an artist may lose in a twelvemonth the manipu- 
lative power wdiich it has cost him many years to acquire, and it is a 
certainty that Eugene Tibet’s hand could not, for the ofiei of thou- 
sands, have produced anything as good as the worst of llie draw- 
ings in those half-forgotten sketch-books. 

“If we can find anything in either of these books that you would 
care to have,” he said, laying the dusty volumes in front of Heath- 
cote. “ But you had better wait till 1 get them dusteci for you.” 

But Heathcote was too eager to endure delay. He wiped off some 
fo the dust with his cambiic handkerchief, and opened the upper- 
most volume. 

The sketches were full of talent, intensely interesting to any lover 
of art. They were sketches over which Pklwaid Heathcote would 
have lingered long under other circumstances. As it was he had 


WYLLAliB S WEIIID. 


273 


considerable difficulty in coucealins: his impatience and appearing 
interested in the book in the abstract. He remembered himself so 
far as to select two pencil sketches of icirlisb faces before he closed 
the first volume, which contained no drawing that bore upon the 
object of his search. 

The second was also a blank, but out of this Heathcote chose 
three or four clever caricatures, which the painter cut out at his re- 
quest. 

“ You must kindly put down your own price for these things/* 
he said, as he opened tlie third volume. 

On the second page he saw the face he had been looking for, the 
face he had expected to see. But, although this thing did not come 
upon him as a surprise; although that penciled likeness, the last 
Jink of the chain, served only to confirm the settled conviction 
which had lately possessed his mind, the shock was sharp enough 
to drive the blood from his face, to set his heart beating like a 
sledge-hammer. 

It was so, then. It was as he he had thought, ever since his con- 
versation with Barbe Leroiix. This was the man. This was Marie 
Prevol’s lover, and her murderer. This was the cold-blooded assas 
sin of Leonie Lemarque. 

He sat silent, breathless, staring blankly at the face before him; 
a vigorous pencil drawing of strongly marked features, eager eyes, 
under drooping hair, a sensitive face, a face alive with passionate 
feeling. The eyes looked straight at the spectator; the lips seemed 
as if, in the next instant, they would move in speech. The attitude 
was careless — hands clasped on the back of a chair, chin resting on 
tlie clasped hands, the whole bust full of power and intention. Yes, 
just so might an ardent thinker, an eloquent speaker, have looked 
at once ot those midnight gatherings of wits and romancers. The 
sketch was evidently an immediate reminiscence, and must have 
been made when the subject was a vivid image in the artist’s mind. 

Happily for Heathcote’s secret, his agitation entirely escaped 
Eugene Tillet’s notice. The painter was dreamily contemplaUng 
the sketches he had just cut out of his book, and thinking what a, 
great man he had been when he bad made them. 

“ 1 should like to have this one,” said Heathcote, when he had 
recovered himself, ” and this, and this, and this,’* he added turning 
the leaves hastily, and choosing at random, so as to njake that first 
choice le^s particular. 

M. Tibet cut out all that were indicated to him. 

” That is the man 1 was talking to you about,” he said, as belaid 
the portrait ot Georges with the rest of the sketches. ” It is a won- 
derful likeness loo, an extraordinary likeness, dashed oft at a white 
heat one morning, after 1 had been particularly impressed by the 
charm of his society. He was a man in a thousand, poor devil. A 
pity that he should have got himself into such a disagreeable scrape 
later. But he was a fool for running away. He ought to have 
given himself up and stood his trial.” 

“Why?” 

” Because he would have inevitably been acquitted. Y^ou may 
murder anybody you like in France, if you can show a sentimental 
motive for the crime, and .this business of poor Georges was entirely 


274 


AVYLLAKirS WEIKD. 


a sentimental murder. The verdict would liave been ‘ Not Guilty.* 
L have no doubt the populace would have diet red him as he left the 
Palais de Justice, and he would have been the rage in Parisian soci- 
ety for a month afterward.” 

“But you knew both the victims; you Who had received kind 
nesses froiti Maxiine de Maucroix, surely you can not judge that 
double murder with so much leniency,” expostulated Heatlicote. 

The painter shrugged his shoulders with infinite expression. 

“ Maxime de Maiicroix was a most estimable young man,” he 
said, “ but what the devil was he doing in that galley?” 

“And now, if you will kindly tell me the sum total of my small 
purchases, 1 shall have great pleasure in giving you notes for the 
amount,” said Heathcote, shocked at the Frenchman’s cynicism. 

M. Tibet handed him his hastily jotted ac(!Ount. The prices he 
had put upon his sketches were extremely modest, considering the 
man’s vanity. 

The amount came in all to less than a thousand francs, but Heath- 
cote insisted upon making the payment fifteen hundred, an insistence 
which was infinitely gratifying to fallen genius. 

“1 shall remember, monsieur, upon mj death-bed that there was 
an Englishman who appreciated my work when my countrymen 
liad forgotten me,” he said with mingled pathos and dignity. “ Al- 
low me to put up the sketches foi you. 1 do not think you will 
ever regret having bought them.” 

While Eugene Tillet was searching among the litter of papers, 
wood blocks, and Bristol board upon his sou’s table, in the hope of 
finding two stray ifieces of cardboard within which to guard his 
sketches, the door was quickly opened, and two girls came into the 
room. 

The first was Mathilde Tillet, the second was Heathcote’s sister. 

“ Hilda!” he exclaimed. 

Hilda stood before him in silence, with drooping head, painfully 
crestfallen. 

“ feomebody told you 1 was here,” she faltered at last. 

“Nobody told me.” he answered, smiling at her embarrassment. 
“1 have not even been looking for you, or making inquiries about 
your whereabouts. Your letter was so veiy self-assertiv^e, you 
seemed so completely mistress of the situation, that 1 felt it would 
be to interfere with you. As 1 opposed you when you wanted 
to marry Bothwell Grahame it w^ould be inconsistent of me to op- 
pose your renunciation of him.” 

Hilda gave a taint sigh. This speech of her brother’s was reas- 
suring, but, it implied discredit to Bothwell. She would fain have 
stood up for her true knight, would lain have praised him whom 
she had forsaken; but she felt it was sj for to hold her peace. By 
and by, when her sarcifice was completed, and when Bothwell 
Grahame was Lady Valeria’s husband, she could afford to defend 
his character. 

“No, my dear child, our meeting is quite accidental. 1 came 
here to see Monsieur Tibet’s drawings.” 

“ Our young friend is known to y^ou, monsieur?” inquired Plugene 
Tibet, wiio had looked on with some aopearance of interest at a con- 
versation of which he did not understand a w^ord. 


WYnLARn’s WEIRD. 


2tr) 


This Mr. Heathcote was evidently Hilda’s brotlier, of whom Mile. 
•Duprez had spoken before slie intiodiiced Hilda to the family circle. 

“ Your young friend is my sister, monsieur,” answered Heath- 
cote; ” and since she was delermined to run away, 1 am glad she 
fell into such good hands.” 

“ And, now you have found her, you are going to carry her off, 1 
suppose.” said Tibet. “ It will be a pity, for 1 hear that her talents 
have made a irreat impression upon one of the cleverest professors 
at the Conservatoire, and that she may do great things wiih her 
voice if she pursues her studies there. My young people will be in 
despair at losing her.” 

” They shall not lose her quite immediately, ” replied Heathcote, 

though, if she is bent upon studying at the Conservatoire, 1 think 
it would be better for her to have her old governess to look after 
her in Paris.” 

” Friiulein Meyerstein!” exclaimed Hilda. “She would worry 
me out of my'life. She would talk about— about — the past.” She 
could not bring herself to mention Bothwell’s name just yet. “ My 
only chance of ever being happy again is to forget my old life. 
There is some possibility of tliat here, among new faces and new 
surroundings. And they are all so kind to me here. Madame Til- 
let is like a mother.” 

All this was said hurriedly in Englishi while M. Tibet discreetly 
occupied himself putting away his sketch books. Mathilde had 
withdrawn, and was telling her mother tlie unpleasant surprise that 
had greeted her return, 

“ How did you come to know these people?” asked Heathcote. 

“ Mile. Duprez brought me here. She has known the Tibets all 
her life. She will answer to you for their respectability.” 

“ Web, we will think about it. Let me look at you, Hilda. Y"ou 
are not looking particularly brilliant. It does not seem to me that 
Paris agrees with you over well.” 

“Palis agrees with me quite as web as any other place,” she 
answered quietly. 

He took her hand and led her to the window, and looked thought- 
fully into the sad pale face, with its exp:ession of settled pain. 
Y"es, he knew what that look meant; he Imd experienced that dull, 
slow agony of a breaking heart. She had surrendered all that was 
dearest in life, and she must live through the aching sense of loss, 
live on to days of dub contentment with a sunless lot. He who 
himself had never learned the lesson of forgetfulness was not in- 
clined to think lightly of his sister’s trouble. 

“ You lock very unhappy, Hilda,” he said. “I begin to ques- 
tion the wisdom of your conduct. Do you believe that Bothw^eb 
really cared more for this audacious widow than for you?” 

“ He had been devoted to her for years,” answered Hilda. “1 
saw his letters; 1 saw the evidence of his love under his own hand. 
He wrote' to her as he never wrote to me.” 

“ He was younger in those days,” argued Heathcote. “ Young- 
sters are fond of b g words.” 

“Ah, but that first love must be the truest. 1 never cared tor 
any one till 1 saw Bothweb, and 1 know that my first love will be 
my last.” 


•276 


vvtllard’s weird. 


“ 1 hope not,” said Hcathcote. “ 1 hope you have acted wisely 
in your prompt renunciation. There were reasons why 1 did not 
care for the match.” 

” You surely have left off suspecting him,” said Hilda, witli an 
indignant look. ” You are not mad enough to think that he was 
concerned in that girl’s deathl” 

” No, Hilda, that suspicion is a thing of the past. And now let 
us talk seriously. You have set youi heart upon pursuing your 
studies at the Conservatoire?” 

” It is my only object in life.” 

” And you would like to remain in this family?” 

” Very much. They are the cleverest, nicest people 1 ever knew 
— with tlie exception ot my nearest and dearest, you and Dora — and 
Bothwell. They are all kindness to me. The life suits me exactly. 
1 should like to stay here for a twelvemonth.” 

” Tiiat is a categorical answer.*' said Heathcote, ” and leaves me 
no alternative. I will make a few inquiries about Mr. Tillet and his 
surroundings, and if the replies are satistactory, you shall slay here. 
But 1 shall send Glossop over to look after you arid your frocks. It 
is not right that my sister should be without a personal attendant 
of some kind.” 

” 1 don’t want Glossop. If she comes here she will write to her 
friends in Cornwall and tell them where 1 am.” 

“No, she won’t. She will have my instructions before I send 
her here. She shall send all her Cornish letters through me. And 
now good by. It is just possible that 1 may not see you again before 
1 leave Paris.” 

” You are going to leave Paris soon?” 

” Very soon.” 

” Tnen ] suppose you have found out all you want to know about 
that poor girl who was murdered?” 

” Yes, 1 have found out all 1 w^ant to know.” 

“ Thank God! It was so terrible to think that there were people 
living who could suspect Bothwell.” 

” It is horrible to think there was an}" man base enough to mur- 
der that helpless girl — a man so steeped in hypocrisy that he could 
defy suspicion.” 

Voii know" who committed the murder?” inquired Hilda. 

” 1 can answer no more questions. You will know all in time. 
The difficulty will be to forget the hideous story when you have 
once heard it. Good-by.” 

They were alone in the Tillet salon, M. Tillet having retired 
w'hile they were talking. He reappeared on the landing outside to 
hand Mr. Heathcote the parcel ot sketches, and to make his respect- 
ful adieux to that distin. uished amateur. 

” Monsieur, your brother, is the most charming Englishman 1 ever 
met,” said the painter to Hilda, when his visitor had disappeared in 
the obscurity ot the staircase. 

He ])atted his waistcoat pocket as he spoke. The sensation of 
having bank-notes there was altogether new. He had been ted upon 
the fat of the land by his devoted wife; he had been })rovided with 
petty cash by his dutiful children; but to touch a lump sum, the 
price ot his own woik, seemed the renewal ot youth. 


wtuard’s weird. 


277 

Do you remember tbe curious name of that picture of Landseer’s, 
ma cTiatte,^' lie said, chucking his wife under the chin when she 
came bustling in from her housewifelv^ errands. ‘‘ ‘ Zair is lif in 
ze all dogue yet.’ Zair is lif in zedogue, qne wici. See here, 1 have 
been earning money while you have been fianochanV 
lie showed her the corner of the little sheaf of notes, coqueltishly. 
She held out her hand, expecting to be entrusted with the treasure; 
but he shook his head gently, smiling a tender smile. 

“ .T^o, moil enfant^ we will not trifle with this windfall,” he said; 
“ we will treat it seriously; it shall be the nucleus of our future 
fortune, faclieterai des rentes.' ' 

The tears welled up to his wife’s honest eyes — tears, not of grati- 
tude, but of mortification. She knew this husband of hers well 
enough to be very sure that ever}^ sou in those bank-notes would 
have dribbled out of the painter’s pockets in a few weeks, and that 
no one — least of all the squanderer himself — would know how it 
had been spent, or in what respect he was the better for its ex- 
penditure. 


CHAPTER XXXL 

WAITING FOR HIS DOOM. 

Life for Dora “Wyllard was more' than ever melancholy after 
Hilda’s disappearance. The girl’s companionship had been her only 
ray of sunshine during this time of sorrow and anxiety. In her 
sympathy with Hilda’s joys and hopes she had been able to with- 
draw herself now and then from the contemplation of her own 
misery. Now this distraction was gone, and she was alone with 
her grief. 

Julian Wyllard had shown much greater anger at Hilda’s conduct 
than his wife had anticipated. He had taken the lovers under his 
protection, he had been curiously eager for their marriage, had 
talked of it, and had hurried it on with an almost feverish impa- 
tience. And now he would not hear of any excuse for Hilda’s con- 
duct. 

‘'Shelias acted like a madwoman,” he said. “When every 
thing had been arranged to secure her future happiness with Both- 
W’elh her devoted slave, she allows herself to be driven away by the 
audacity of a brazen-faced coquette. I have no patience with her. 
But if Both well has any brains he ought to be able to find her in a 
week, and bring her to her senses.” 

“ Perhaps Bothwell may not care about running after her,” spec- 
ulated Dura. 

“ Oh, a man who is over head and ears in love will endure any 
outrage. He is a slavish creature, and the more he is trampled upon 
the better he loves his tyrant. It remains to be seen which of the 
two women Bothwell would rather marry— Hilda, with her rustic 
simplicity, or the widow, with her slightly damaged reputation and 
ever handsome income.” 

“ He does not waver tor a moment between them.” 

“ Ah, that is all you know^; but if he does not give chase to Hilda 


S'J'S WYLLARD'S WEIRT). 

you may be sure it is because in his heart of hearts he hankers after 
the widow.” 

Boihweli had gone back toTrevenna, intending to pay the builders 
for the w’ork liiey had done, and suspend the carrying out of the con- 
tract indefinitely. 

He would liave gone to give them some compensation no doubt 
for delay; I ut they were good, honest, rustic lellow^s, and he was 
not afraid of being severely mulcted. 

Julian Wyllard spoke of Both well and bis love affairs with the 
irritability of a chronic sufferer, and Dora listened and sympathized, 
and soothed the sufferer as best she might. Her burden was very 
heavy in these days. To see her belored suffer and to be unable to 
lessen his pain, that was indeed bitter. And in his case the palliat 
ing drugs which deadened his agony seemed almost a w^orse evil 
than the pain itself. The constant use of morphia and chloral was 
w^orking its sad effect, and there were times wdien the sufferer’s 
mind w^andeied. There were dreams which seemed more agonizing 
than wakeful hours ot pain. Dora sat beside her husband’s couch 
and watclied him as he slept, under the intluence of morphia. She 
listened to his dull mutter ings, iu French for the most part. He 
rarely spoke any other language in that troubled state of the brain 
between dreaming and delirium. It w^as evident to her that his 
mind, in these intervals ot w^andering, habitually harked back to 
the days of his residence in Paris, ten years ago. And his halluci- 
nations at this time seemed al ivays of a ghastly character; the scenes 
he looked upon were steeped in blood, doubtless a reminiscence ot 
those hideous days of the Commune, wdien Paris was given over to 
fire and carnage. She shutldered as she saw the look ot horr*or in 
his widely-opened yet siglidess eyes— sightless for reality, but seeing 
strange visions— shades of dread. She shuddered at the wild cry 
which broke from those white lips — the infinite pain in the lines of 
the forehead, damp with the wild dew's ot anguish. 

In his waking hour^, when free from the influence of chloral; the 
sufferer’s brain was as clear as ever, but the irritation of his nerves 
was intense. A sound— the slightest— agitated him. A footstep iu 
the corridor, a ring at the hall door, startled him as if it had been a 
thunder clap. His senses seemed always on the alert, and there was 
no middle stage between that intense activity of brain and the coma 
or semi-deliiium which resulted from opiates. 

Sir \Yilliam Spencer had been down to Penmorval twice since the 
invalid’s return, but his opinion had not been hopetul on either oc- 
casiv)n. On the second time of his coming, he had seen a marked 
change for the worse. The malady iiad made terrible progress in a 
short interval. And now, on this dull gray autumn afternoon, 
within twenty-four hours of Heatiicote’s visit to the Hue du Bac, 
the famous physician came to Penmorval for the third time, and 
again coiiirl only bear witness to the progress ot evil. 

Y^yllard insisted upon being alone with tlie ph3'S’’cian. 

“ Sir VYilliam, 1 want yon to tell me the truth about my case; the 
unsophisticated tiutli. There will be no end gained by your with- 
holding it, for 1 have read up the history of this disease of mine, and 
1 know pretty well what 1 have to exjicct. A gradual extinction, dis- 
figurement, and distortion of every limb and every feature, begin- 


avtllaed’s weird. 


279 


ning with this withered, claw-shaped hand, and creeping on and 
on, till 1 lie like an idiot, sightless, speechless, tasteless, with lolling 
tongue, dribbling upon iny pillow. And throughout this dissolution 
of the body 1 may yet, if specially privileged, retain the faculties of 
my mind. 1 may be to the last conscious of all that i have been and 
all that I am. There is the redeeming feature. 1 shall perish 
molecule by molecule, feeling my own death, able to appreciate 
every change, every stage in the ineviiable progress of corruption. 
That lingering process of decay which other men sufler unconscious- 
ly underground 1 shall suffer consciously above ground. That is 
the hisiory of m/ case, I lake it. Sir William.” 

‘ ' There have been such cases. ’ ’ 

” Yes, and mine is one of them.” ' 

” I do not say that. The fatal. cases are certainly in the majority, 
but there have been cures. Whatever medicine can do-—” 

” Will be done tor me. Y'es, 1 know that.' But the utmost you 
have been able to do so far has been to deaden pain, and that at the 
cost of some of the most diabolical dreams that ever man dreamed.” 

“ Let us hope tor the best, Mr. Wyllard,” replied the great phy- 
sician, with that grave and kindly tone which had brouglit comtort 
to so many doomed sufferers, the indescribable comfort which a 
sympathetic nature can alwa3^s impart. “ As your adviser, it is my 
duty to tell you that it would be well your house were set in order.” 

” All has been done. 1 made my will after m\' marriage. It gives 
all to my wife. She will deal with my fortune as the incarnate 
spirit of justice and benevolence. 1 have supreme confidence in her 
wisdom and in hei goodness.” 

” That is well. Then there is no more to be said.” 

Ten minutes later the physician was being driven back to the 
station, and Julian Wyllard was alone. 

“And swift expires a driveler and a show,” he repeated, in a 
tone of suppressed agony. “Yes, that is the horror. To become a 
spectacle — a loathsome object from which even she would shrink 
aw'ay with averted eyes. That is the sting. Facial anesthesia — every 
muscle paralyzed, every feature distorted. Oh, tor the doomsman 
to make a shorter end of it all. The face has been spared so far— 
speech has hardly begun to falter. But it is coming. 1 found my- 
self forgetting common words tin's morning when 1 was talking to 
Dora. 1 caught myself babbling like a child that is just beginning 
to talk.” 

lie look up a hand-mirror wdiich he had asked his wife to leave 
near him, and contemplated himself thoughtfully for some moments. 

“ No, there is no change yet in the face, except a livid hue, like 
a corpse alive. The features are still in their right places, the mouth 
yet not drawn to one side; the e^'elids still firm. But all will follow 
in its time. If there were but an easier way out of it now, and one 
could take it, just at the right moment, without being too much of 
a craven.” 

He glanced at the table by his sofa — a capacious table, holding 
his books, his reading-lamp, his dressing-case with all its costly 
appli.mces. 

“If I did not want to know the issue of Heathcote’s inquiries, 
it— Oh! for some blow from the sledge-hammer of destiny, that 


280 


wyllard’s weird. 


would put an end to all irresolution, take my fate out of my own 
hands. A blow that would annihilate me and yet spare her— if that 
could be.” 

A loud ringing at the hall door sounded like an answer to an in- 
vocation. Juliau Vv'yllard lilted his head a little way irom the 
silken-covered pillows and turned his haggard eyes toward the door 
leading into the corridor. 

After an interval of some moments there came the sound ot foot- 
steps, the door was opened, and a servant announced: 

” Mr. Heatlicote.” 

Heathcote stood near the threshold, hat in hand, deadly pale, 
grave to solemnity, mute as death itself. 

“ You have come back, Heathcote?” asked the invalid, witli an 
off-hand air. “ Then 1 conclude you have accomplished your mis- 
sion, or reconciled yourself to failure.” 

“ 1 have succeeded in my mission beyond my hopes,” answered 
Heathcote. “ But my success is as terrible to myself as it must be 
to others.” 

” Indeed. Does that mean that you have solved the mystery ot 
the French girl’s death?” 

“ It means as much and more than that. 1 have found the mur- 
derer ot Leonie Lemarque and of her aunt Marie Prevol, and ot her 
aunt’s admirer, Maxinie de Maucroix. A man must have a mind 
and heart of iron who could carry the consciousness of three such 
murders with a calm front; who could clasp his innocent wdfe to 
his breast, accept her caresses, her devotion, her revering love — 
knowing himself the relentless devil that he is! Julian Wyllard, 
thou art the man!” 

“1 am!” answered the white lips resolutely, while the haggard 
eyes flashed like defiance. “ I am that man. I have obeyed my 
destiny, which was to love with a desperate love and hate with a 
desperate hate. 1 have gratified my love and my hatred. 1 have 
lived, Heathcote, lived as men ot your stamp know not how to live; 
lived with the uttermost drop of blood in my veins, with every beat 
of my passionate heart, and now 1 am content to go to the w'orms!” 

” Julian!” 

A wail— the agonizing cry of a despairing woman — sounded in the 
utterance ot thaf name. 


CHAPTER XXXll. 

‘'alike is hell, or paradise, or heaven.” 

It was the despairing cry of a woman's breaking heart that came 
with that low wailing sound from the curtained doorway. Dora 
had been told ot Ileathcote’s arrival, and had huriied ti-om her 
dressing-room on the further side ot the spacious bed-chamber. She 
had reached the threshold ot the morning-room in time to hear 
Heathcote pronounce the dreadful w^ord ” Murder,” and she had 
heard all tliat followed. She liad heard her husband’s own lips pro- 
claim himselt triply an assassin. 

“It is my wife’s voice,” said Wyllard, quietly. “You knew 
that she was there, perhaps. You wanted her to hear.” 


wyllard’s weird. 


281 


” 1 did not know she was there; but it would have been my duty 
to tell her all 1 have discovered. She has lived under a (lelu8k)u; 
she has lived under the spell ol 3^our consummate hypocris^y. It is 
only right that she should know the truth. Thank God, she has 
heard it trom your own lips.” 

“You have not forgotten the day when we were rivals for her 
love,” said Wylhird, with a diabolical sneer. “1 won the race, 
heavily handicapped: and now your turn has come. Y^ou have 
your revenge.” 

Heathcote was silent. His eyes were fixed upon the figure which 
appeared between the folds of the dark plush curtain, and came 
slowly, totteringly, forward to Wyllard’s couch, and sunk in a heap 
beside it. The white, set face, with its look of agony, the widely- 
opened eyes, pale with horror, haunted him for long after that 
awful hour, it was he who had brought this agony upon her, he 
who had unearthed the buried skeleton— he who, going forth from 
that house to do her bidding, her true knight, her champion, her 
servant, had come back as the messenger of doom. Was he to 
t: lame that fate had imposed this hateful task upon him? He told 
himself that he was blameless, but that she would never forgive. 

“ 1 congratulate you upon your perseverance and your success,” 
said Wjdlard, after a pause. “ You have succeeded where all the 
police of Paris have failed. Was it love tor my wife or hatred tor 
me that stood in the place of training and experience?” 

“ It was neither. It was the hand of Fate, the mysterious guid- 
ing of Providence, which took me from stage to stage of that hor- 
rible story.” 

“ And it was my wife — my redeeming angel— who sent you forth 
upon your mission, who appealed to your love of the past for your 
devotion in the present. There is the irony of Fate in that part of 
the business,” said Wyllard, mockingly. 

He had always hated Edward Heathcote; he had hated him even 
in the hour of his own triumph as Dora’s accepted lover; hated 
him because he had once possessed Dora’s love, but most of all 
because he had been worthy of it. 

Julian Wyllard ’s head sunk forward upon his folded arms, and 
for some minutes there was silence in the room, save for a low and 
smothered sound of suppressed sobbing from that kneeling figure 
by the sick man's couch. The face of the husband and the face of 
the wife were alike hidden. Dora’s head had fallen across her 
husband's knees, her hands clasped above the dark coils of silky 
hair, in an attitude of consummate agony. 

Heathcote stood a little way oft, feeling as if he were in the pres- 
ence of the dead. The mystery of those tw^o hidden faces oppressed 
him. He almost hated himself for what he had done. He felt like 
an executioner— a man from whom the State had exacted a revolt- 
ing sei vice. 

“Julian, is this true?” murmured Dora, after a long silence. 
“ Is all, or any part of this dreadful story, true?” 

He looked up suddenly, as if vivified by the sound of her voice. 

“ What would you think of me if it were all, or any of it true?” 
he asked, hoarsely. “ Look up, Dora. Let me see your eyes as you 


282 


WYLLARD'S WETRt). 


answer me. 1 want to know how 1 am to stand henceforth in the 
sight ot the woman who once loved me?” 

She lifted her head and turned her death like face toward him, 
tearless, but with a look of agony deeper than he had ever seen be- 
fore on any human countenance. 

That other look, that last look of Leonie Lemarque’s which had 
haunted him waking or sleeping ever since the fifth ot July, had 
been a look of hoi rifled surpribe. But here there was the quiet 
anguish of a broken heart. 

“ Who once loved you,” she echoed. ‘‘ Do you think such love 
as mine can be thrown ofl like an old gown? Tell me the truth, 
Julian — it can make no difference to my love.” 

Julian Wy Hard’s head sunk back upon the heaped-up pillows, 
and he remained for some moments gazing dreamily at the low 
wood fire opposite his couch, looking into the pages of the past. 

“ Yes your story is put together veiy cleverly,” he said, “ and it 
is for the most pait true. Y"es, 1 am the murderer ot Marie Prevol 
— 1 am that jealous devil, who in an access of fury destroyed the 
life that was dearer than his own. It was not that 1 believed her 
guilty. No, it was the agoidzing knowdedge that lier love had gone 
from me, in spite of herself, had gone to that younger, brighter, 
more fascinating lover. I saw’ the gradual working of the change — 
saw coldness, dislike even, creeping over her who bad once pleute- 
ously returned rny love— saw that my company was unwelcome, 
my departure a relief. She who of old had followed me to the 
threshold, had hung upon me wdth sweetest caresses at the moment 
of parting, now could scarce conceal her indifference* her growing 
aveisiou. 1 saw all this, and Satan took possession of me. Again 
and again 1 was on the verge of unpremeditated murder. My eyes 
grew dim, veiled by a cloud ot blood; but 1 held my hand before 
the deed was done. 1 have had my grip upon her throat; that milk- 
white throat, which was pun r of tint and lovelier of form than the 
choicest gems 1 could buy to adorn it. 1 have seen the pleading 
eyes looking into mine, asking me for merc}^ and 1 have fallen at 
her feet and sobbed like a child. But there came a time when this 
sullen devil of jealousy and hatred took a flimer hold of me, and 
then 1 swore to myself that they should both die. There was no 
help— no oilier cure. If she lived she would leave me for Maucroix. 
She, the wife 1 had honored, would sink into the mistress of a fop 
and a fribble, to be cast off when bis fancy staled. 1 knew that was 
inevitable, so 1 made up my mind all of a sudden, wdien 1 heaid of 
her intended jaunt to Saint-Germain, from the sp}^ I had employed 
to w'atch her. 1 pul my revolver in my pocket, and followed her to 
the station, disguised by a pair of dark spectacles and a style of 
dress in which she bad never seen me. 1 stood by the doorway of 
the waiting-room and saw her sitting side by side with her favored 
lover, they two as happy and as absorbed in each otliei* as two chil- 
dren at play in a garden. Y^ou know all the rest. Y^es, it was 1 
who watched in front of Henri Quiitre, saw those twm laughing to- 
gether in the caudle-light — it was 1 who sprung out of the thicket 
in the forest, and shot them down. i ne after the oilier, lefi them 
lying there, side by side, dead. 1 had a strange wild sense of happi- 
ness as 1 rushed away into the deiitii:*’. of the wood — a sense of Iri- 


AVYLLAHD S ^VEIKI). 


288 


umph. 1 had won my love from her new lover. She liad been mine 
only, and she would be mine now until the end. 1 had saved her 
from her ov^n weakness — saved her from the dishonor which her 
folly must soon have made inevitable.'’ 

He paused for a few moments, but neither Dora nor ITealhcote 
spoke, and after the britfest silence hew^ent on with iiis confession. 

“ I never meant to survive my beloved, except just so loni' as 
would be necessary to put my affairs in order, and m transfer my 
securities to England, where those of my own fleslrand blood might 
profit by my fortune. In order to do this, 1 got quickly back to 
Paris, and decided to take up the threads of my business life wnth a 
view to closinir the book forever. You know enough of my char- 
acter and my history to know that 1 have a perfect command over 
my emotions, and you wdll therefore believe that 1 was able to go 
about my daily business, to mix with my fellow-men, wdth as serene 
a manner and countcnance as if not a ripple of passion had crossed 
the stagnant surface of my dull, plodding nature. 1 had so trained 
myself that the man of passion and emotions w’as one being, and 
the man of business another— a creature totally apart. And now, 
for a while at least, the man of feeling w^as dead and buried, and 
only the money-making automaton remained. 

“ It happened at that time that a cloud of disaster swept over the 
Paris Bourse. Had 1 w^ound up my affairs at that pf^riod, 1 should 
have been a heavy loser; and 1, to whom the science of finance was 
a passion, could not submit to losses which I knew how' to avoid. 
So 1 delayed the settlement of my affairs, and even allowed myself 
to be tempted into fresh enterprises. Yet scarcely a night passed 
on w^hich 1 did not look st my pistols before 1 lay dawn to rest, 
and long for the time when 1 should feel myself free to end my 
miserable life.” 

And in those days you went frequently to the cemetery to place 
your tribute of roses on your victim’s grave?” said Heathcote, 

“ It was the only resject 1 could show to the woman my love had 
killed,” answered Wyllard; “the only token of respect for my 
wife.” 

“Y^our wife?” exclaimed the other. “Then Barbe Girot was 
right in her supposition. You loved Marie Prevol well enough to 
marry her?” 

“ 1 loved her loo well to degrade her,” answered Wyllard. “ It 
w^as in the flood tide of my financial success, when I was almost 
drunk with fortune, and had not one thought above money-making, 
that Marie Prevol’s face a weakened me to a new life. That lovely 
face— so like yours, Dora— yes, it w^as the likeness to my good 
angel of the past that drew me to you, my good angel of the present, 
my comforter, my better self. Oh, but for that second unpremedi- 
tated crime, the evil woik of a moment’s savage passion, 1 might 
have gone down to the grave in peace, believing that 1 had expi- 
ated that first murder, atoned for that double bloodshed by the ago- 
nies that had gone before and after it. But that last crime wrecked 
me, it revealed the blackness of my diabolical nature— a nature in 
which the evil is inherent, the good only the effect of education and 
surroundings. 

“Yes, she was my wife, and 1 gave her all honor and reverence 


284 


wtllard’s weird. 


due to a "wife, though it was my caprice, my false pride perhaps, to 
keep my relations with her a prolound secret, 1 liad won my repu- 
tation in Paris as the stolid, unemotional Englishman, a man of 
iron, a creature without passions or human weaknesses, a calcula- 
ting machine. It was this reputation which had helped most of all 
to bring me wealth. To be known ail at once as the lover and the 
husband of a beautiful actress, would have been social, and might 
have been financial ruin. The men who had trusted me with their 
money to stake on the speculator’s wdieel of fortune would have 
withdrawn their confidence. 1 should have been left to fight single- 
handed on my own capital, and my own capital, large as it was by 
this time, was not large enough for 1113 ^ schemes. The Credit Mau- 
resque was then in the front rank of public favor, and it was gen- 
erally considered that 1 was the Credit Mauresque. Any weakness 
on my part and the bubble would have burst. So 1 planned tor 
myself a dual existence. By da}^ 1 was the cool-headed financier: 
but when the stars w'cre high and the lamps lighted 1 W’as Georges, 
the American-Parisian, the Eccentric and Bohemian — the friend 
and entertainer of a little band of choice spirits, journalists, musi- 
cians, painters— the lover, husband, slave of Marie Prevol. Ah, 
Dora, for the first two years of that strange life there was compen- 
sation ill it foi all the restraints of the day, for the anxiety, the 
fev^er, the fret of a speculator’s hazardous career. 

Yes, she was my wife. I married her in a village church in 
the lake country, a quiet little church halt hidden among the hills 
which encircle Derwentwater~a sweet spot. Do you remember 
once asking me to take you to the English lake. Dura? 1 had to 
invent an excuse for refusing. 1 could not revisit those scenes, even 
wdth you.” 

Again there was silence, broken only b}'’ the sound of Dora’s 
weeping. She was still on her knees beside her husband’s couch; 
her hand still clasped his. Not all the horror that had been revealed 
to her could change her love to hate or scorn. Deepest pity filled 
her breast. She, to whose nature deeds of violence were altogether 
alien, could yet enter into and sympathize with the feelings of this 
sinner whose fatal passions had sunk him in an abyss of crime. 
She pitied him and clung to him, ready with words of comfort 
whenever such words might be spoken. Even in her silence the 
v<'ry touch of her hand told of consolation and of pity. 

” 1 married my love in that quiet village church; married her 
under iny assumed name of Gustav Georges, but the marriage was 
sound enough in law, and for me it meant a life-long bond. 1 had 
found Marie Prevol pure and innocent in the tainted atmosphere of 
a Parisian theater, a creature incapable of guile. I honored her 
tor that innate punt}^ which was independent of surroundings and 
circumstances, which had passed unscathed through the fiery fur- 
nace of Parisian life. The first years of our wedded life were full 
of happiness, steeped in a love which knew no change or diminu- 
tion. My darling seemed to me, day by da 3 % more adorable, and it 
ma}’ be that the secrecy of my double life, the long hours of 
severance, the narrow circle in which Marie and i lived when we 
were together — it may be that these circumstances and the strange- 
ness of our relations intensified my passion, lending to our calm 


WfLLARD’s WEIRD. 


385 


domestic bliss all the charm of mystery and romance. Ah, how 
Bweet were our brief holidays by the Mediterranean, our wanderings 
in picturesque old Hpain, tar away from the beaten tracks, choosing 
always those places to which the world did not go. So far as it 
went', that life of ours was a perfect ilfe; and 1 was fool enough to 
think that it would last forevei.’* 

He sighed, and sunk for some moments into a dreamy silence, his 
eyes fixed in a vision of that past existence. 

“ My wife had an intense delight in the theater and her successes 
there. She was never a famous actress, but her beauty had made 
her the rage. She had a bird -like soprano voice and a bewitching 
manner. She was one of those adorable actresses who enchant their 
audience without ever losing their own individuality. She was 
always Marie Pievol; but the public wanted her to be nothing else. 
As I kept her entirely secludeii from society tor my own reasons, 1 
could not deny her the pleasure of puisuing her profession. It 
pleased her to earn a handsome salary, to know that she w^us not 
entirely dependent on me, to be able to help her mother, who was 
a harpy, continuallj’^ taking money from me. So she remained on 
the stage, to my destruction; for it was there that Maucroix saw 
Jier, and it was because she was an actress that he dared to pursue 
her with attentions which she at first repulsed, but which she after- 
ward encouraged. 

“ Ho, Dora, 1 will not dwell upon that hideous time, those days 
and nights of madness and despair. 1 saw her love going from .ue. 
1 saw the subtle cliange tfom love to indifference, from indifference 
to fear, from fear to disgust, and then horror. She was kind to me 
still, from a sense of duty-— meek, obedient, a gentle, yielding wife. 
But I have seen her shiver at my approach, I have felt her hand 
grow cold in mine; 1 had found repulsion instead of warm, confid- 
ing love. Nor was 1 allowed long to remain in ignorance as to the 
cause of the change. A kind friend of mine was also an acquaint- 
ance of Maucroix. He informed me of the young man’s passion 
for Marie, of his having sworn to win her, at any cost — yes, even at 
the cost of the coronet wliich he had the powder to bestow upon her. 
He was independent, rich, able to do as he liked with his life. He 
w^as one of the handsomest young men in Paris, and was said to be 
the most fascinating. And 1 was a hard-headed man of business, 
anxious, brain weary, long passed the finish of hopeful youth. 
Could 1 wonder that Marie turned from me to her young adorer? 
1 gave her all credit for having struggled againsi her iniatuatioii, 
for having been true as a wife even to the last; but she had ceased 
to love me, and the day was at hand when the barriers w’ould be 
brojien, when that impassioned woman’s heart of hers, that fond, 
impulsive nature whose every pulse, I knew, would yield at a 
breath, and she whom 1 wwshiped would fall to the blackest depths 
of sin. 

“ Then, like Othello, I called this deed which 1 had to do, a sac- 
rifice and not a murder. 

Toil have heard the story of my crime from the lips of your 
friend here. He has unraveled the tangled shein with a wonderful 
ingenuity. Yes, it was* i who laid those roses on my victim’s grave. 
1 stayed in Pans long enough to save appearances, the man Georges 


386 


WYLLAED's AVEIRD. 


being supposed to have fled to the utmost ends of the earth. 1 went 
about among my fellow men on the Bourse and in the clubs, and 
heard them talk of ]\larie Bievors murder. Once I was told, by a 
man who had met me as Geoi'ires, of iny likt-ness to the supposed 
muiderer; but those tew chosen Iritnds who had known me as 
Georges were not men to be met on the Bourse or financial circles, 
and I had always eschewed mixed society. My identity with the 
murderer was never suspected. I saved my fortune, wound up my 
aflairs, aud left Paris, as 1 thought forever; went forth from that 
accursed city as I would have gone out of hell. 1 went back to 
Enaland with the brand of Cain, not upon my brow, but »iiion my 
heart. 1 wandered in a purposeless lasbiou from place to place, 
possessed of a restless devil. 1 had my oflice in London, where 1 
tried to find a distraction in the excitement of spcculati(»n, the finan- 
cial strategy that had once been my delight. Vain the efiort, 1 
was no happier in Londou than 1 had been in Paris, within a few 
minutes’ walk of the house that had sheltered my wife, the secret 
home in wh’ch 1 had been so happy. 

“ Haunted always by the same dark thoughts, seeing onl}^ one 
image amidst every change of surroundings, 1 came at last to this 
fag-end of England. The rugged scenery, the wild coast-line, the 
sparsely populated moors and fells pleased me better than anything 
I had seen on this side of the Cbannel. The landscape harmonized 
with my melancholy thoughts, and exercised a soothing influence 
upon m.y mind. 1 became more reconciled to ir.}^ life. Conscience, 
as you, Dora, or yon, Heathcote, mayacceitt the word, had troubled 
me but little. 1 had exercised wlial 1 held to be a right — a right to 
slay the woman who had broken my heart, the man who had spoiled 
my life. 1 was oppiessed by no particular horror at the thought of 
blood-guihiness. The agony from whicli 1 suftered was the loss of 
3iarie’s love, the loss of the woman who had once tilled my life 
with happiness. 

“ 1 took to your native soil, Dora. It might be a foreshadowing 
of the love which was to gladden my latter days. My mind grew 
clearer, the burden seemed to be lit led from me. Aud then in a 
happy hour I met you, 

“ Do you remember that first meeting, Dora?” 

” Acs, 1 remember,” she said softly, her load drooping upon her 
husband’s pillow, her face hidden, an attitude of mourning, like a 
marble figure bending over a funeral urn. 

‘‘ It was in the picture -gallery at Tregouy Manor. 1 had been 
taken there as a stranger by the rector of the i)arish to see a famous 
Wouverman. Y^our mother received me in the friendliest spirit, 
and while w^e were talking about In r pictures you appeared at tlie 
other eriti of the gallery, a girlisli figure in a white gown, carrying 
your garden hat in your liand, surprised at seeing a stranger.” 

” 1 remember how you started, how oddly you looked at me,” 
murmured his wife. 

” 1 was looking at a face out of tiie grave — the face of Marie Pre- 
vol; younger, fresher, but not more innocent in its stainless beauty 
than Marie’s face when 1 first knew her. The likeness is but a 
vague one, perhaps, a look, an air, but to me at that moment it 
struck home. My heart went out to you at once. If my murdered 


wytj.ard's weird. 


287 


wife had come back to me in some angelic form, had offered me 
peace, and pardon, and tiie renewal of Jove, 1 could not have surren- 
dered myself more completely to that superhuman bliss than 1 sur- 
rendereti mj'selt to you, 1 loved you from the first, and swore to 
mj^selt that you should be mine. 1 do not think 1 used any dishon- 
orable arls in order to win you.” 

‘‘ Toil knew that she was the betrothed of another man — knew 
that your hands were stainc<l with blood,” said Ileathcote, with 
suppressed indignati«)n. ” Was there no dishonor in tempting a 
puie-minded girl with your love? Y^oii, whose heart must be as a 
charnel-house I” 

” I had put every thought of that dark past behind me before 1 
enteied Tregony Manor. Was 1 a different man, do you think, be- 
cause in one dark hour of my life L had sinned against the law of 
civilized society, and revenged my own wrongs according to the 
universal law of unsophisticated humanity? 1 loved my new love 
not the less dearly because of that crime. 1 loved lier as women are 
not often loved. Dora, speak to me. Tell me if 1 have ever tailed 
in any duty which a husband owes to an idolized wife? Have I ever 
been false to the promises of our betrothal ?” 

” Neverl never! my beloved,” murmured the low, mournful 
voice. 

” We might have lived happily to the end, perhaps, had Fate 
been kinder. 1 had my dark dreams now and again, acted over my 
past crime, my old agonies, in the helplessness ot slumber; but this 
was but a transient evil. My darling’s influence could always 
soothe and gladden me, even in the darkest hour. All went 
well with me, belter, perhaps, than life goes with many a better 
man — until the fatal hour when I received a letter from Marie 
Prevol s mother, written on her death-bed, asking me to find 
a home in England for her orphan granddaughter —the child 1 had 
heard ot in the Due Lafilte, and who hail often stayed there as 
Marie’s pet and plaything, but whoui 1 had scrupulously avoided at 
all times. 

” I answered the letter promptly, in my character of a friend of 
the missing Georges. It was in this character that 1 had contrived 
from time to tin e to send money for the relief of Madame Le- 
marque’s necessities. 1 sent money to bring the girl to London, 
and arranged to meet her at the railway station. That was when 1 
went ostensibly to buy ihe famous Raphael, Dora. I was some- 
what uncertain as to my plans for tlm girl’s future; but 1 meant 
kindly by her, 1 had no thought but of being kind to her. If she 
should prove an amiable girl, wilh pleasing manners, my idea was 
to bring her to this neighborhood, to get her placed as a nursery 
governess somewhere within m}^ ken, to introduce her lo you, and 
to secure your kindness and protection for her. 1 had paiif for her 
education at a convent in Biittauy, I had oeen told that she left the 
convtmt with an excellent chanicter. She was tlie only link re- 
maining with the terrible past, the onfy witness of my crime; but 1 
had been told that after her illness all memory of that ciime had 
left her. 1 had been assured that 1 should run no risk in having 
her about me. ” 

” Poor child,” said Dora, with a stifled sob, recalling that sura- 


288 


wyllard’s weird. 


mer evening when Julian Wyllard came out of the station, a little 
paler than usual, but self-possessed and calm, telling her in meas- 
ured tones of the calamity upon the line— the strange death of a 
nameless giil. 

“ i met her at Charing Cross in the early summer morning,” he 
continued quietly. ‘‘ She was flurried and frightened, so f l ightened 
by the strange faces and the strange language round about Jier that 
she forgot to tell me of the hag she had deposited in the waiting- 
room. But 1 succeeded in putting her at her ease with me, and 
while she w^as taking breakfast with me in a private room at the 
hotel, she told me all about her grandmother’s death, and her own 
education in the convent; what she could do in the wa}" of teach- 
ing. She was frank and gentle, and seemed a good gill, and 1 had 
no thought but to do the very utmost for her advantage. 1 could 
have pensioned her and made her independent of all service; but 1 
considered that for a friendless girl there could be no better disci- 
pline than the necessity of earning a living under reputable circum- 
stances, and protected by powerful friends. 

“ We drove together to Paddington— as your cabman informed 
you,” continued Wyllard, addressing himself for an instant to 
Heathcote, wdiom he for the most part ignored, making his confes- 
sion to the heart-broken wdfe, whose low, stifled sobbing sounded 
in his ear now’ and ^ain as he spoke. ” At Paddington I took a 
second-class ticket for Plymouth, not quite resolved as to whether I 
should take the girl on at once to Bodmin, or leave her in the care 
of the wife of my frame maker at Plymouth, a kiml soul who 
woilld, 1 knew, be faithful to any trust 1 reposed in her. 1 put my 
protegee in a second-class carriage, in the care of some friendly peo- 
ple, and 1 rode alone in a first-class compartment. I wanted to be 
free to think out the situation, to decide on my line qf conduct. 1 
knew that she had a packet of my letters— my early letters to Marie 
Prevol, written without reserve, out of the fullness of my heart — 
letters identifying me with the man Georges. It was vital that 1 
should got these letters trom her before she left the railway car- 
riage. Ves, with a curious weakness, I delayed making the at- 
tempt till we came to Plvmouth. There would be fewer people in 
the carriages then, 1 thought. It would be easier for me to be alone 
with Leonie. 1 had by this time decided upon taking her on to 
Bodmin, and finding her a temporary home in my steward’s family. 

” At Plymouth 1 left my compaitineut, intending to go straight 
to the second-class carriage in which 1 had placed Leonie; but on 
the platform 1 was met by people 1 km w, who detained me in con- 
versation till the traiu was within two minutes of starting. While 
1 w'as talking to these people I saw Leonie wandering up and down 
the platlorm in an aimless w^ay, perhaps looking tor me. 1 had told 
her that 1 would let her know when she had come to the end of her 
journey, and now she w^’as mystified by the delay, and feared that 1 
had forgotten her. About one minute before the starting of the 
train 1 escaped from my troublesome friends, and got into an empty 
second-class, into whicli I beckoned Leonie as she came along the 
platform. 

” We crossed the bridge and came into Cornwall; and now there 
wjis but the shortest lime for me to explain my views as to the gill’s 


WYLLAH d\s WElKb. 


289 


future, and to get from her those fatal letters which told the history 
of my love for Marie Prevol, my double life as her husband, and 
which, by the evidence of my own handwriting, ident’itied me with 
her murderer. 1 was determined, that Leonie should not leave the 
train with that packet in her possession, but 1 anticipated no diffi- 
culty in getting it from her. 

“ 1 told her my views, promised her that I would be to her as a 
guardian and friend, so Ions: as she should deserve my protection, 
assured her that the happiness and prosperity of her future life 
were contingent only on her own conduct. And then 1 asked her 
tor the packet which Madame Lemarque had told her to deliver to 
me. But to my astonishment she refused to give it to me. Her 
grandmother had told her that she was never to part with those 
letters. She was to keep the packet unopened so long as 1 was 
kind to her; so long as she was protected by my care; but if at any 
time 1 withdrew my help from her, and she was in difficulty or 
w'ant, she was then to open the packet and read the letters. Her 
own good sense would tell her how to act when she had read them.. 
In a w'ord, the letters were to remain in this girl’s possession as a 
sW'Ord to hang over my head. 

“ 1 tried to make the girl understand the infamy of such a line of 
conduct— tried to make her see that her grandmother had schooled 
her in the vilest form of chantage, ‘ You see me willing to help 
you freely, generously, for the sake of an old friend,’ 1 said; ‘ and 
surely you would not use these letters as a lever to extort money 
from me.’ All my arguments were useless. The discipline of the 
convent had taught the girl blind and implicit obedience to priests 
and parents. She would not consider anything except the fact that 
certain instructions had been given to her by her dying grand- 
mother, and that her duty was to obey those instructions. 

“ I was patient at the beginning, but the unhappy creature’s 
dogged resistance made my blood boil. -^Passion got the bett^ of 
me. 1 caught her by the shoulder with one hand, while I snatched 
the packet from her feeble grasp with the other. 1 was beside my- 
self with rage. As 1 bent over her, holding her as in a vise, she 
gave a sudden shriek, expressing horrified surprise. 

“ ‘The face in the wood,’ she cried, ‘the murderer, the mur- 
derer. ’ 

“ My hand relaxed its grip, she broke from me, and I dashed 
open the door of the carriage. ‘ 1 will tell,’ she gasped, in strange, 
suppressed tones, full of concentrated' fury. ‘ You shall not escape. 
Y^es, I remember your face now— the face 1 saw in my dreams — the 
savage face in the wood.’ 

“ She was on the foot- board, clinging to the iron by the window, 
muttering to herself like a mad thing. God alone knows what she 
meant to do. She wanted to make my crime known, to bring the 
train to a standstill, to have me arrested then and there. While she 
stood w-avering on that narrow ledge, her life hanging by a thread, 
the train rounded the curve and passed on to the viaduct. The 
stony gorge was below, deep and narrow, litre an open grave- 
tempting me— tempting me as Satan tempts his own. One sudden 
movement of my arm, and all was over. 1 had held her, for the 
first few moments. 1 had tried to save her. Had she been reason- 
iO . — , 


^90 


wtllard’s aveird. 


able 1 would have saved her. But there was no middle course. 
Ruiu, uQutthrable ruin for me, or death for her. One motion of 
my arm, and she was gone. Light as thistle-down the poor little 
figure fluttered down the gorge. Another minute and the train 
stopped. 1 had my railway key reafly before the stoppage, and did 
not lose an instant in getting along the oft-side ot the line back to 
the compartment I had left. Every head witliout exception was 
turned toward the side on which the girl had fallen. The only 
witness ot my crime had been destroyed, and my letters were safe 
in my own keeping, to be burned at the earliest opportunity.'* 

“ You burned tluem that night,** said Dora. “ 1 remember. And 
that tress of hair which you were looking at when 1 went into the 
library — ** 

“Was cut from Marie’s head after death. The mother had 
placed it among those fatal letters. That nijrht, after an interval 
of years, I touched the soft bright hair on which rny hand had so 
often lingered in adoring love— that lovely hair which my hand had 
stained with blood.** 

There was no more to be told. An awful silence followed- -a 
silence in which even Dora’s sobs sounded no more. There was a 
tearless agony which was deeper than that passion of tears. 

She rose from her knees and turned toward Heathcote, white to 
the lips, icy cold, looking at him as if he had been a stranger, and 
as it ship expected no more mercy from him than from a stranger. 

“ What are you going to do?’’ she asked. “ Yoii have come here 
alone; but perhaps there are people waiting outside— policemen, to 
take my husband to prison. He can not run away from them ; your 
victim is quite helpless.” 

“ My victim? Oh, Dora, how cruel that sounds from you!” 

“ Y^es, 1 know,” she said, hurriedly. “ I asked you to find out 
the mystery of that miuder, and you have obeyed me. My hus- 
band— my husband an assassin,” she cried, flinging her clasped* hands 
above her head in an access ot despair, “ my husband whom 1 
believed in as the noblest and best of men. He was tempted to 
blackest sin — tempted by the madness of jealousy — wTought upon 
afterward by a sudden panic. He was not a despicable sinner— not 
like the man who poisons his friend, or who kills the helpless for 
the sake of gold. It was an ungovernable passion which wrecked 
him— it was a fatal love which led him to crime. Heathcote,” 
falling at his feet with a wild cry ot appeal, “ have mercy on him, 
have mercy. Think of his helplessness. Remember how low he has 
been brought already. Have mercy.” 

Heathcote lifted her from her knees, as he had done once before 
in his life, when she pleaded to him tor pardon for her own false- 
hood. 

“ 1 would have mercy upon a snake if you loved it, Dora,” he 
said. “ either you nor your husband have anything to fear from 
me. Parisian juries are very merciful; but 1 will not submit Mr. 
Wyllard to the inconvenience ot a trial. As lor the episode upon 
the railway, we will try to think that an accident, an unlucky im- 
pulse, unpremeditated, falling considerably short ot murder. No, 
Mrs. Wyllard, 1 do not intend to deliver up your husband to the 
law\ The one person who has the highest right to cry for vengeance 


WYLLARD'S WEIRD. 


291 


lias learned the sublimity of submission to tlie Divine will. 1 have 
seen the widowed mother of Maxime de Maucroix, and from her 
lips 1 have heard the reproof of my own revengeful feelings. But 
although I am content to be silent, it would be well for Julian Wyl- 
lard, when he shall feel the hand of death upon him, to write the 
admission of his guilt; since that alone can thoroughly clear your 
Cousin Bothwell before his fellow-men. So dark a suspicion once 
engendered may hang over a man tor a lifetime.” 

“ My confession shall be written before this maimed hand of 
mine is still forever. My wu’fe’s kinsman shall not always bear the 
burden of my sin,” said Wyllard. ” 1 thank you, Heathcote, for 
jmur mercy to a fallen toe. A wretch so abject, so smitten by the 
hand of Fate, would be too mean a creature for your revenge. You 
are not like the noble Achilles, and would hardly care to drag a 
corpse at your chariot wheel, and wreak your rage upon impotence. 
The play is played out, the lights are down. Let the curtain fall in 
decency and in silence. For her sake be merciful.” 

” Make your peace with your offended God, if you can,” an- 
swered Heathcote. ” yon have nothing to fear from me.” 

He moved slowly toward the door, and at last turned and held 
out his hand to Dora. She hesitated for an instant, looking at her 
husband. 

Give him your hand, Dora,” said Wyllard. ” 1 can bear to see 
you clasp hands with the man who has read the riddle of Leonie 
Lemarque’s death. I have come to a stage at which life and death 
make but little difference to me, and even shame is dead. Give him 
your hand. Y"ou may need his friendship and protection some day 
when 1 am underground, and when people look at you with a 
morbid interest, as the murderer's widow. It will be wise to shullle 
oft my tainted name as soon as you decently can. Change it for a 
better, Dora.” 

Julian, how can you be so cruel?” 

She was by his side again, with her hand in his, forgetful of all 
things except her love lor him, her pity for his pain. All her 
natural horror at his guilt was not strong enough to extinguish her 
love for him, to lessen her compassion. As she had pitied him for 
his physical infirmit}^, so she now pitied him for his mental infirm- 
ity — a mind swayed to crime by undisciplined passions. 

Heathcote left the room without another word. He had come 
there as the messenger of fate. He had no further business in that 
house. 

He had heard from the butler that Sir William Spencer and the 
local physician had been in consultation together that afternoon, 
and that the man had gathered from their talk as they left the house 
that Mr. Wyllard’s illness was likely to end fatally, sooner than Sir 
William had at first supposed. 

Give me my sleeping draught, and then go, Dora,” said 'Wyl- 
lard, when he and his wife were alone. 

She prepared to obey him. The nurse was taking her rest at this 
hour, and it was the wife’s privilege to attend upon her husband. 
The morphia sleeping draughts had been administered with ligid 
care, Dora herself watching the allotment of every bottle, lest the 
unhappy sufferer should be tempted to take an overdose and end 


292 


WYLLARD'S WEIRD. 


the tragedy of pain. Once, when she had betrayed her anxiety by 
a word spoken unawares, she had seen a curious smile upon her 
husband’s pale lips, a smile that he had read her thought; and now 
she felt the peril of suicide was a much nearer fear. What had he 
to live for now — he who stood confessed a murderer and a hypo- 
crite, before the wife who had revered him? 

The sleeping draujjhts had been sent in from the local doctor, half 
a dozen at a time, Mr. Wyllard taking two and sometimes three in 
the course of the day and night. Dora kept them under lock and 
key in the cabinet where she kept her drawing materials, an old 
tulip-wood cabinet of Dutch inlaid work that stood in a corner of 
the room, at some distance from the sick man’s sofa. 

On the table by his side stood his dressing-case, with its glittering 
array of gold topped bottles— eau-de-cologne, toilet vinegar, sal vola- 
tile. Bis medicine glass was on the same table. 

And now, while Dora stood with her face toward the cabinet, 
Wyllard’s crippled hands were busied with one of those bottles in 
the dressing-case. With a wonderful swiftness and dexterity, 
taking into account the condition of his hands, he drew out one of 
the smallest bottles in the dressing-case, and unscrewed the stopper. 
The bottle contained about half an ounce of a clear w^hite liquid. 

Wyllard poured this liquid into a glass, which he held ready for 
Dora when, she brought him the sleeping draught. The colorless 
liquid would have hardly showed in the bottom of the glass under 
any circumstances, but Wyllard w^as careful to screen it with his 
hand. 

Dora poured out the sleeping draught, and handed him the glass 
in saddest silence. What could she say to him from w^hose familiar 
face the mask had fallen. The husband she had loved and honored 
was lost to her forever. The helpless wretch lying there was a 
stranger to her; a sinner so begrimed with sin that only the infinite 
compassion of woman could behold him wu'thout loathing. 

“ I drink this to your future happiness, Dora,” he said, solemnly, 
” and remember that at my last hour 1 blessed you for your good- 
ness to a great sinner. ” 

There w’as that in his lone which warned her of his purpose. She 
flung out her arms, trying to seize the hand that held the glass, 
before he could drink. But the table w^as between them, and the 
glass w^as at his lips when he finished speaking. He drank to the 
last drop — gave one long sigh and fell back upon his pillow— dead. 

“ Hydrocyan acid,” said the local practitioner w^hen he came to 
look at the corpse, “ and a happy release into the bargain. 1 should 
liked to have given him an overdose of morphia myself, if the law 
of the land would have allowed me; or to have operated on the base 
of his brain and killed him tenderly in the interests of science, just 
to find out whether Cruveilhier or Virchow was right in his the- 
orizing as to the seat of the malady. 1 go for Virchow, backed by 
GulL 


WYLLARD'S WEIRD. 


293 


CHAPTER XXXllI. 

** SWEET AS DEATH FOR EVERMORE.’' 

Dismal hours, dreary days of monotonous melancholy, a hope- 
less lassitude of mind and body, followed for Julian Wyllard’s 
widow after that awful sudden death. Every one was very kind; 
every one was considerate; even ttie law was more than usually in- 
dulgent. The horror of an inquest was spared to that desolate 
mourner. Things were made very easy by Sir William Spencer’s 
recent visit, oy the fact that he had been heard by the servants to 
pronounce Mr. Wyllard’s condition hopeless. Mr. Nicholls, the 
local practitioner, registered the cause of death as muscular atroptiy, 
aud considered himself justified in so doing, as to his mind suicide 
had been only a symptom of the malady, a paroxysm of despair 
following quickly upon Sir William Spencer’s admission that the 
end was inevitable. 

“ If ever a man had a right to take his own life, that man had/' 
said Mr. Nicholls, when he argued the matter with his own con- 
science. 

An inquest would have done good to nobody; but Mr. Nicholls 
was very anxious for a post-mortem. He wanted to see if the mus- 
cles were much wasted, if the medulla itself showed traces ol dis- 
ease — whether Cruveilhier or Virchow had the best of the argument. 
But he was not allowed this privilege. 

Those early stages of bereavement, while the house was darkened 
— that sunless autumn day on which the funeral train wound slowly 
over the moor to the distant burial-ground, the reading of the will, 
the coming and going of friends and legal advisers, were as an evil 
dream to Dora Wyllard. She took no part in anything. She 
affected no interest in anything. Just at the last she was asked if 
she would not like to lay her offering upon the coffin— one of those 
costly wreaths, those snow-white crosses of fairest exotics, which 
had been sent in profusion to the wealthy dead— and she had 
shrunk f rom the questioner with a shudder. 

“ Flowers upon ilicit coffin? No, no, no!” 

Yet at the last moment, when the dismal procession was leaving 
the hall, she appeared suddenly in the midst of the mourners, pale 
as the dead, and broke through the crowd, and placed her tribute 
on the coffin-lid, a handful of wild violets, gathered with her own 
hands in the melancholy autumn shrubberies. She bent down and 
laid her face upon the coffin. 1 loved you once!” she moaned, 
” 1 loved you once!” And then kind hands drew her away, half- 
fainting, and led her back to her room. 

The blow had quite unsettled poor Mrs. Wyllard ’s mind, people 
said afterward, recounting this episode, at second, third, or fourth 
hand. No one was surprised when she left Penmorval within a 
week of the funeral, and went on the Continent with her two old 
servants, Priscilla and Stodden. 

Heathcote and Both well had planned everything for her, both be- 


294 


wyllard's weird. 


inc: agreed that she must be taken away from the scene of her s(^v 
row as speedily as the thing could be done: and slie had obtived 
them implicitly, unquestioningly, like a little child. 

What could it matter where she went, or what became of her‘r 
That was the thought in her own mind when she assented so meek- 
ly to every arrangement that was being made for her welfare. V\'hat 
grief that ever widowed heait had to bear could be equal to her 
agony? It was not the loss of a husband she had adored — that loss 
tor this life which might have been balanced by gain in a better life. 
It was the extinction of a beloved image forever. It was the knowl- 
edge that this man, to whom she had given the worship ot her warm 
young heart, the enthusiastic regard of inexperienced girlhood, had 
never oeen worthy of her love: that he had come to her w’eary from 
the disappoiutment of a more passionate love than he could ever 
again offer to woman — the first deep love of a strong nature — a love 
that burns itself into heart and mind as aquafortis into steel. He 
had come to her stained with blood-guiltiness — an unconfessed as- 
sassin — holding bis bead high among his fellow-rrien, playing the 
good citizen, the generous landlord, the patron, the benefactor --he 
who had slain the widow’s only son. He had lived a double life, 
hiding his pleasures, lest his gains should be lessened by men’s 
Knowledge of his lighter hours. He wdio had seemed to her the 
very spirit of truth and honor, had been steeped to tire lips in false- 
hood — a creature of masks and semblances. This it was which 
bowed her to the dust; this it was which weighed upon her spirits 
as no common loss could have done. 

With her own hands she explored her husband’s desk and dis- 
patch-boxes— the receptacles for all his more important papers— in 
search of any written confession which should attest the dead man’s 
guilt, and foiwer establish .Bothwell’s innocence. It would have 
been unutterable agony to her to have made such a confession pub- 
lic — to have let the curious eyes ot the world peer in upon that story 
of guilt and shame; yet bad any such document existed, she would 
have deemed it her duly to make it public— her duty to her kins- 
man, who had been made the scapegoat of another man’s crimes. 
Happily for her peace there was no such paper to be found — not a 
line, not a word which hinted at the dead man’s seen t; and happily 
for Bothwell the cloud that had hung over him had by this time dis- 
persed. The steadiness with which he had held his ground in the 
neighborhood, tlie fact of his engagement to Miss Heathcote, had 
weighed with his Bodmin traducers; and those who had been 
the first to hint their suspicions w’ere now the readiest to protest 
against the itifamy of such an idea. Had Bolhw^ell emigrated im- 
mediately after the inquest at the Vital Spark, tliese same people 
would have gone down to the grave convinced that he w'as the 
murderer. 

But before the end of that year there occurred an event which 
was considered an all-sufficient proot of Belli well’s innocence and an 
easy solution of the mystery ot the unknown girl’s death. A miner 
entered a solitary tarmhouse between Bodmin and Lostwitbiel, in the 
dim gray ot a winter evening, and killed two harmless womenfolk — 
an old w'oman and a young one — for the sake ot a very small 
booty. He was caught red-handed, tried, convicted, and hanged 


wtllakd’s weird. 295 

in Bodmin Jail; but although he confessed nothing, and died a 
hardened impenitent miner, it was believed by every one in the place 
that his was the pitiless hand which had sent the French girl to her 
doom. 

“ Sbe had a little bit o’ money about her, maybe, pf)or lass, and 
he took it from her, and when she screamed he pushed her out of 
the train. Such a man would think no more of doing it than of 
wrincing the neck of a chicken,” said an honest townsman of Bod- 
min. 

Thus having identified somebody as the murderer, Bodmin was 
content; and Bothwell Grahame was more popular than he had ever 
been in the neighborhood, lie gave the county tov>n but little of 
his society, notwithstanding this restoration to local favor. He rare 
ly played billiards at the inn, or loih^red to gossip in the High 
Street. He could not forget that people had once looked coldly 
upon him, that he had suffered the shame of unjust suspicion. At 
Trevenna he was happy, for there no one had ever so wronged him; 
there he was a favorite with everybody, from the rector to the hum- 
blest fisherman. At Trevalga, too, and at Boscastle he had friends. 
He could afford to turn his back upon the people who had been so 
ready to think evil of him. 

One of Heathcote’s first cares after the Penmorval funeral had 
been to write to the Baronne de Maucroix. His letter was to the 
following effect. 

” It is my grave duty to inform you, madame, that the murderer 
of your son has confessed his crime, and also that he has escaped 
from all earthly tribunals to answer for his sins before the Judge of 
all men. A painful maludy, from which he had been for some time 
a sufferer, ended fatally on the eveninar of the 19(h inst., within the 
hour in which he confessed his guilt. His case has been inonounced 
hopeless b}^ a distinguished physician; but it is just possible the 
shock caused by the unexpected revelation of his crime may have 
hastened his end. 

” Accept, madame, my respectful homage, and permit me also to 
express my admiration of that truly Christian spirit which you. 
evinced at our late interview. Edward Heathcote.” 

By return of post Heathcote received an answer to his letter; but 
the answer was not in the handwriting of the Baronne de Mau- 
croix. That hand was at rest forever. The letter was from the 
baronne’s friend and confessor, the cure of the village adjacent to 
her chateau. 

“ Monsieur, — Under the sad circumstances prevailing at the cha- 
teau, 1 have taken it upon myself, with the permission of the late 
baronne's legal representative, to reply to your polite communica- 
tion, which was never seen by the eyes of my lamented friend and 
benefactress, Madame de Maucroix. Upon that very evening 
which you name in your letter as the date of the murderer’s death, 
I called at the chateau, soon after vespers, according to my daily 
custom; being permitted at that period of the day’s decline to enjoy 
an hour’s quiet conversation with that saintly woman who has now 


296 


AVYLLARD'S WEIRD. 


beeu taken Irom us. 1 was ushered, as usual, into tlie saloji, where 
1 quietly awaited Madame de IMaucroix’s appearance, having been 
told that she was in her son’s room, that apartment which she used 
as her oratory. 

“ 1 knew that it was her custom to spend hours in that chamber 
ot her beloved dead, absorbed in spiritual meditations; so 1 waited 
with patience and without surprise, for more than an hour, musing 
by the fiie. Then, wondering at this unusual forgetfulness in one 
always so considerate, 1 ventured to lift the portiere, and to pass 
through the intervening salon, which was in darkness, to the bed- 
chamber, where, through the halt-open door, 1 saw a lamp burning. 

1 pushed the door a little further open, and went in. The baronne 
was on her knees beside the bed, her clasped hands stretched out 
straight before her upon the satin coverlet, her face leaning for w^ard. 
I should have withdrawm in respectful silence, but there was some- 
thing stark and rigid in the deaf lady’s attitude which filled me 
with fear. 1 wondered that she had not been disturbed by the sound 
of my footsteps, for my heavy shoes had creaked as 1 walked across 
the floor. 1 drew nearer to her. Not a breath, not a movement. 

“ I bent over her and touched the clasped hands. They M^ere 
still forever in death. It was a peaceful, a blessed ending: such an 
end as they who best loved that noble creature would have chosen 
for her. 

“ Accept, monsieur, the assurance of my high consideration. 

“ PJERRE DuPLESSI.” 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

“ AVHO KNOWS NOT CIRCLE?” 

The Cornish tors, tliose wild brown hills upon whose dark fore- 
heads time writes no wrinkles, were just one rear older since .Julian 
"Wyllard’s death, and Both well Grahame was established in his house 
at Treveuna as an instructor ot the embryo Engineer. Alread}' two 
lads had gone forth from Bothwell’s house, after six months’ train- 
ing, and had done well at Woolwich. Oilier lads were coming to 
liim — sons of men he had known in Bengal. He was on the high 
road to reputation. 

After that first passionate disgust with all things, during which he 
had stopped the builders and prepared to quash that contract which 
he had signed with such delight, there had come a more traucpiil 
spirit; and Bothwell Grahame had faced his last unexpected trouble 
with a resolute mind. 

A conversation which he had with Edward Heathcote soon after 
Julian Wyllurd’s death, had given him his first gleam of life. 
Heathcote spoke to him hopefully of the future, and urged him to 
wait quietly. 

” Your marriage wdll be so much the wiser, so inuch the more 
likely to result in lasting happiness, for this delay,” he said. ” If 
you are as loyal and stanch as 1 believe you to be: if it is really mj^ 
sister you would like to marry, and not this fascinating widow, who 
wooes you with fortune in one hand and social status in the other; it 
you are really bent upon sacrificing these good things for Hilda’s 


wyllakb’s weird. 297 

sake, be sure she will ultimately accept your sacrifice. In the 
meantime be patient, and pursue your independent course. A 
woman always respects a man who can live without her.” 

But 1 can not,” answered Bothwell. ” Lite will be less than 
lite to me till Hilda and 1 are one.” 

“ Don’t let her know that, if you mean to be master of your fate 
in the future,” said Heathcote. ” Time can be the only test of your 
truth. If when a year is passed you have not married Lady Valeria 
Harborough, the chances are that my sister will begin to have faith 
in 3"ou. 1 know that she loves you.” 

” Tell me where she is, that I may go to her— that 1 may con- 
vince her.” 

‘‘I have promised to respect her secret,” answered Heathcote 
firmly. 

Bothwell accepted this friendly counsel with a good grace, went 
back to his old lodgings at Trevenna, set the builders at work again, 
spent his days in the open air and his nights in hard study, ate lit- 
tle, slept less, and looked like the ghost of his former self. 

He saw no more of Lady Valeria; but a society paper informed 
him early in Kovember that she had taken a villa at Monaco. He 
could guess from what fount of consolation she was obtainins: ob- 
livion of her griefs. Her grace, her charm of manner, were dwelt 
upon fondly b}’' the paragraphist. She was leading a life of abso- 
lute seclusion on account of her recent bereavement; but she was the 
admired and observed of all wherever she appeared. 

The succeeding paragraph told of Sir George Mildmay’s residence 
at one of the chief hotels. Pie was a distinguished figure at the 
tables, had broken the bank on more than one occasion. 

Bothwell smiled a cynical smile at the juxtaposition of those two 
names. 

” 1 suppose the gentleman has forgotten his beating,” he said to 
himself. 

It was an infinite relief to him to know that Lady Valeria was on 
the other side of the Channel, that her pale face could not rise be- 
fore him ghost-like amidst the home which she had ruined. He 
worked on with all the better will at that embryo home of his for 
the knowledge that this dreaded siren was far away — worked with 
such energy that the builders were whipped out of their customary 
jog-trot, and laid bricks as bricks were never laid before. Bothwell 
watched every brick, with a three-foot rule in his hand, and poirited 
out every flaw in the setting. He paid his builder promptly, as the 
work progressed, and gave him every encouragement to be speedy. 

The alterations and improvements in the old cottage were all 
completed by the end of November, and the builders had flnished 
the brick-work of the new rooms. The old rooms were thoroughly 
dry and ready for occupation before Christmas; and Bothwell spent 
his Christmas in his own house, the first Christmas he had so spent, 
and a very dismal one. But he had his dog, a devoted collie, the 
gift of Dora Wyllard; he had his pipe and his books; and he made 
the best of his solitude. He had a couple of lads— his first pupils— 
coming to him early in January, and he wanted to air the house in 
his own person. He was a little proud of this first house of his own, 
even in the midst of his sadness, as every man is proud of the thing 


298 


WYLLAED\S WEIED. 


that he has created. He walked about the rooms, opening and 
shutting doors and window-sashes, to see how they worked. Need- 
less to say that some of them did not work at all, and that he had 
various inteiviews with foremen and carpenters, by whom a good 
deal ot tinkeiiog had to be done before eve^ythinsr was ship-shape. 
That was BothwelTs favorite expression, lie wanted things ship- 
shape. “ He ought to call his house Ship-shape Hall/’ said the 
foreman. 

BothwelFs chief delight was derived from his own little inventions 
and contrivances, his siitlves in odd corners, his pegs and hooks, 
and ingenious little cupboards. These he gazed upon and exam- 
ined daily in silent rapture. When his two boys came to him — 
long-legged brawny youths, with open countenances, grinning per- 
petually for very shyness— he took them to see all the shelves and 
hooks, and expounded his theories in relation to those conveniences. 

There w'as not to be a slovenly corner in the house; every article 
was to have its peg or hook, or shelf or cupboard. Tennis-balls, 
rackets, foils, single-sticks, skates, whips, guns, boots, caps, and 
gloves. Everything was to be classified, departmented. Organiza- 
tion was to be the leading note. 

Before a week was over, the boys had begun to adore Bothwell. 
They were sporting, and could afford to keep horses; and Bothwell 
and they hunted with lox-hounds and harriers all through that long 
winter, "far into the gladness of spring. The boys were always with 
their tutor. He had no leisure in which to abandon himself to sad- 
ness; except when he shut nimself up in his study to write to his 
Cousin Dora, who w^as living In Florence, attended by the faithful 
Priscilla, who hated Italy as the stronghold of the Scarlet Lady, and 
by Stodden, the old Penrnorval butier. Julian AYyllard’s widow 
w^as living in absolute retirement, broken-hearted, seeing no one, 
seen by no one. The society papers had nothing to say about liei\ 

From Bothwell, Hefithcote sometimes heard of her, heard of her 
with an aching heart. No message of friendship, no line of recog- 
nition had there ever been tor him in any of those letters to Both- 
well, of which he was generally told, some of which had been read 
to him. 

Hilda had been quietly pursuing her studies at the Conservatoire 
all this time, seeing a good deal ot Parisian life in a very modest 
way— that inner life of struggling artists and men of letters, and 
their homely industrious tamilies, a life in which she found much 
that was intellectual, blended with a pleasant simplicity, an absence 
of all pretense. She liked the Tibet girls, and she liked her sur- 
roundings; while music, which had always been a passion with 
her, now became the sole object of her existence. 

“ I suppose you will come back to the Spaniards some day, and 
take care of the twins and me,” her brother said to her when they 
met for an hour in the August after Wyllard’s death. 

He had stopped in Paris to see Hilda, on his way to Switzerland. 

” Yes, I shall go back to the old home — when Bothwell is mar- 
ried.” 

” That is rather hard lines tor me, seeing that 1 don’t believe 
Bothwell has any idea of gelling married to any one except you.” 

Hilda blushed, and then sliook her head despondingly. 


Wyllard’s weird. 

“ Who can tell what he means to do?’’ she said. ** General Har- 
borough died less than a year ago. Lady Valeria could scarcely 
marry within the year.’" 

“ But if Both well meant to rnarry Lady Valeria, he would scarce 
ly be grinding lads at Travenna,” answered Heatlicote. “ He has 
behaved so well that 1 feel it my duty to plead for him.” 

Hilda put her arms round her brother’s neck and kissed him, by 
way of answer. 

” Let me finish my studies at the Conservatoire; and then, at the 
beginnins: of next winter, 1 will go back to the Spaniards, if you, 
still want me there. But perhaps you will have found another mis- 
tress for the old house before that time.” 

1 know what you mean, Hilda,” he answered gravely. “Ho, 
there is no hope of that.” 

“Not yet, perhaps. It is too soon. Dora is too loyal and true to 
forget easily. But the day will come when her heart will turn to 
her first love. You have never ceased to care for her, have you, 
Ldward?” 

“No, dear; such a love as mine means once, and once only. My 
wife was all goodness, and 1 was grateful to her, and fond of her 
— but that affection was not like the old love, and it never ex- 
tinguished the old love.” 

“ Be sure your reward will come in due time.” 

“ 1 can afiord to wait.” 

Be w'ent on to Switzerland, and from Switzerland strayed into 
Italy, the St. Gotha route inviting him. He spent a month at Flor- 
ence, and he saw Dora IVyllard several times during that period, 
lor half an hour at a time. She had taken up her abode tor the 
summer at an hotel— near the Abbe}^ of the Gray Monks, in the 
forest of Vallombrosa, a truly romantic spot amidst wooded hills. 
Hither Edward Heatlicote made his pilgrimage, deeming himself 
richly re'warded by half an hour’s interview ; but thei’Q was little in 
those interviews to stimulate hope. The widow was bowed down 
by the burden of her sorrow. Her only feeling in relation to Ed- 
ward Heatlicote w^as that he alone upon earth knew the story of her 
husband’s life, and that he alone could fully sympathize with her 
in her hopeless misery. 

There are widows and widows. While Dora Wyllard was living 
alone among the pines and chestnuts of the Apennines, seeing no 
one but monks and occasional tourists, and religiously avoiding the 
latter, Lady Valeria Harborough was living up the Thames, in a 
neighborhood which has (d late become so faslnonable that it now 
ranks rather as an annex to West-End-London than as the country. 

General Harhorough’s widow had hired one of the prettiest villas 
at Marlow^ a dainty bungalow, built by an artist, who soon tired of 
his toy, and exchanged the villa lor a house-boat, wdiich was less 
commodious and a good deal more unhealthy, but which possessed 
the charm of not being rooted in the soil. The house had seemed 
perfect when Lady V'aleria took it, but she had sent down a West- 
End upholsterer with a keen eye for the beautiful to make all pos- 
sible improvements; and the result Was a nest which might have 
satisfied a modern Cleopatra. But it did not quite satisfy Lady 


800 


WTLLAUD S WEinr). 

Valeria, who found fault with a good many things, and informed 
the upholsterer that although his taste was fairly good, and his 
coloring well chosen, there was an absence of originality in his 
work. 

“ I have seen other houses almost as pretty,” she said, ” and 1 
have seen drawing-rooms just like this, which is w’^orse. 1 hale to 
live in rooms like other people’s.” 

The upholsterer murmured something about a royal princess and 
a royal duchess, both of whom had condescended to express them- 
selves pleased at his decoration of their houses; but Lady Valeria 
froze him with her look of scom. 

” I hope you don’t compare me with royal princesses,” she said 
contemptuously. ” They are accustomed to let other people think 
for them, poor creatures, and they take anything they can get. Ko 
one expects originality in a palace. 1 don’t wish to grumble, Mr. 
Sherrendale, but 1 am just a little disappointed in your work. It 
has no cachet.'' 

The upholsterer accepted his rebuke meekly, but with an air of 
being wounded to the quick; and he took care to debit his wounded 
feelings against Lady Valeria when he made out his bill. 

That villa up the river in the lovely June and July weather seemed 
to be in the midst of the world’s fair. It was gayer than Park Lane 
—a more concentrated gayety. Pleasure wore her zone a little looser 
here than in London. There was just a touch of Bohemianism. 
People dressed as they liked, said what they liked, did as they liked. 
There were few statel}'^ entertainments, few formal dinners, or smart 
dances; but every one kept open house; there was a perpetual drop- 
ping in, or going and coming, which kept carriages and horses at 
work all day between houses and stations. The rivei was like a 
high-road, and half the population lived in white flannel, and smart 
tennis frocks, and eccentric hats. It was a world apart— a bright, 
glad summer w^orld in which there was no such thing as thought or 
care; a world of shining blue water and green meadows, dipping 
willows, rushy eyots, and hanging woods; a world in which there 
were hardly any regular meals, only a perpetual picnic, the popping 
of champagne corks heard in every creek and backwater, while 
humbler revelers rested on their oars to drink deep of shandy-gafi; ; 
a world musical every evening with glees, and songs, and serenades, 
to an accompaniment of feathering oars. 

lu such a world as this Lady Valeria Harborough lived over again 
the same kind of life she had lived at Simla— but not quite the 
same; for at Simla she had maintained her dignity as General ITar- 
borough’s wife; she had received the worship of her admirers as a 
queen in the old days of chivalry might receive the homage of true 
knights. Now she had a difierent air; and the homage that was 
offered was of a different quality. That wdnter of widowhood at 
Monaco, with her stanch ally Sir George Mildmay in constant at- 
tendance upon her, had made a curious change in Lady Valeria. It 
had vulgarized her with that gratuitous vulgarity which has become 
of late years one of the leading notes in English society — the affec- 
tation of clipped words and slang phrases, the choice of vulgar 
ideas, the studious cultivation of vulgar manners. Naturailj' this 
acquired vulgarity of May tair is not quite the same as that of Brix- 


W YLLAllD 8 WETKI). 


301 


ton or Highbury. There is not the genuine ring about it. The ac- 
cent is the accent ot Patricia, but the words are the words ot Ple- 
beia. It is, however, all the more offensive because of that blending 
ot aristocratic insolence— that Pall JVIall swagger which gWes ton to 
the idioms ot Hoxton and Holloway. 

Lady Valeria had fallen into the fashionable slang and the cur- 
rent drivel. She had left off reading*:, and had taken to cigarettes. 
Her court was less of a court than of old, and more ot a smoke- 
room. People came and w^ent, and did and said what they liked in 
her presence. Sometimes in the dreamy noontide, when the closed 
Venetians and the shadowy rooms recalled the atmosphere of Simla, 
Lady Valeria reclined in her lounging chair, fanning herselt lan- 
guidly, and half stupefied with chloral, a state which she described 
as being “ a little low.’' Sometimes in the evening she was all fire 
and sparkle, a vivacity which her enemies attributed to dry cham- 
pagne. There was a great deal of champagne consumed at that 
ideal villa, but with a perpetual dropping inot visitors — a household 
conducted upon the laxest principles— who could tell what became 
of the wine? The empty bottles were the only difficulty, since there 
seems to be no use yet invented for empty champagne bottles; the 
very outcasts, the rag and bone collectors, reject them. 

Lady Valeria w^as going to the bad. That was the general opin- 
ion among her nearest and dearest— the people who ale her dinners 
and drank her wine, and smoked her cigarettes, and used her luxur- 
ious rooms as it the villa had been a club. She had taken a horror 
of solitude, must have a crowd about her always, be amused, cost 
what it might; and as she hated her own family she would have 
none of them at any price. Hence the somewhat rowdy following 
which made the house by the river notorious; known by those light- 
ed windows which shone late into the small hours, when all other 
casements were dark; known by the sound of strident laughter and 
the rattle ot dice. 

Lady Valeria had been ruined by a winter at Monaco. That was 
what some people said. Others ascribed her deterioration to the 
fact ot having escaped all control, and having too much money at 
her disposal. Others shook their heads, and asked what could be 
expected ot any woman whose guide, philosopher, and friend was 
George Mild may. 

“ And lie means to be her husband,” added one shrewd observer. 

** My dear Aubrey, she det^ests Jiira,” urged another. 

That makes no difference. He means to marry her. A woman 
who takes chloral will marry any man who makes up his mind to 
have her. ’ ’ 


CHAPTER XXXV. . 

” HOW LIKE A WINTEK HATH THY ABSENCE BEEN.'* 

Pebhaps, among all Valeria’s friends and admirers. Sir George 
Mildmay was the only man who had any inkling of the truth, who 
was keen enough to discover the real cause of that moral decay 
which in its results was obvious to every one. He had enjoyed 
more of Lady Valeria’s confidence than anybody else, and he had 


wyllard’s weird. 


watched her closely, both before aud after her husband’s death. 
She had tried to keep him at a distance when they first met at 
Monaco; she had let him see that her resentment was as strong as 
ever; but at a race-meeting in the neighborhood he had contrived to 
make his peace wilh her. The gambler’s common instinct drew 
them together. She was alone in a strange land -or in other words, 
she knew no one except Sir George Mildmay whose counsel upon 
turf questions was worth sixpence; and she humiliated herself, aud 
forgot that burning wrong of the past, tried to forget that for her 
sake her dead husband had beaten this man. She allowed Sir 
George to call upon her one February aiternoon, and tell her all 
about his book tor the Craven and the First Spring, across the 
dainty Moorish lea-tray, wilh its little brazen tea-pot, and egg-shell 
cups and saucers. After that they became stanch allies, if not 
stanch friends. Yaleria had now the command of ample funds, 
and could bet as much as she liked. When she took Sir George’s 
advice she was generally a winner. She invariably lost when she 
followed her own inclinations. He initiated her as to the mysteries 
of the tables at Monte Carlo, expounded the whole theory of mar- 
tingales, and showed her how she might beguile the tedium of her 
days with the occult science of chance, as exemplified by pricking 
row's of figures on a card. 

They were a great deal together as the season wore on, and, as a 
natural consequence, they were talked about a gieat deal by that 
section of socrety whose chief conversation is of the follies and sins 
of its own particiifar set. 

Sir George felt that he was getting on; but in his heart of hearts 
he knew perfectly well that Valeria did not care a straw for him, 
aud that she was never likely to care for him. He knew that she 
had passionately loved Bothwell Grahame, and that despair at his 
abandonment was the mainspring of ail her conduct. She was 
reckless of herself aud of her good name— spent her money like 
water — ruineil her health — indulged every caprice of the moment — 
gave way to 'every fit of ill -temper— simply because; having lost 
Both ell Grahame, she had nothing in life w'orth living tor, except 
such things as couid give her feverish excitement, and with that ex- 
citement forgetfulness. 

Knowing all this, knowing that the woman’s heart was like an 
empty sepulcher, George Mildmay w'as not the less determined to 
win her for his wife. 

We suit each other so well,” he said modestly, when his friends 
cousratulated him, considerably in advance, after their manner. 
“ No, we are not engaged. 1 only wi;^h we were; but 1 dare say, if 
1 am good, it may run to that by and by. She is a very fine woman, 
and lias a remarKable head for the turf— remarkable, by Jove I 
She’s always wrong; but the mind is there, don’t you know, a very 
remarkable mind. And she’s a very fair judge ot a horse, too, or 
would be it s'ne would only look at his legs, which she never does.” 

“ Aud she has plenty ot lucre, eh, George? I think that’s the 
main point in your case, isn’t it?” 

“Very sorry tor myself, but can’t ylo without the filthy lucre. 
Couldn’t aflord to dope with Mrs. JVlendaus, if she was a pauper,” 
answered Sir George, with cheery frankness. 


WYLLARD S WEIRD. 


303 


** Some iciiot told me that her husband knocked you down at the 
last party they ever gave at Fox Hill/’ said his friend, with a half 
grin; “ that was a lie, of course.” 

“Fo, there is some truth— we had a little passage ^t fisticuffs: 
and that’s why 1 mean to marry his widow,” answered Sii George 
savagely. ” 1 meant to have the law of him; but as lie bilked the 
beak by dying before the hearing of the summons, 1 mean to have 
his money by way ot consolation. It will be a pleasanter remedy.” 

” And the lady thrown in by way of makeweight,” grinned 'his 
friend. 

The time came when Sir George thought he might venture to ad- 
vance his claim, in a purely business-like manner. Lady Valeria 
and he had made a splendid book for the Derby, and the lady had 
won something over five thousand pounds, graphically described by 
her coadjutor as a pot ot money. The money was of very little con- 
sequence to her nowadays, for she had not yet succeeded in living 
beyond her income; but she was as eager to win as she had bpen in 
the old time at Simla when losing meant difficulty, and might mean 
ruin. She loved the sensation of success, the knowledge that her 
horse had struggled to the front and kept there at the crucial mo- 
ment. 

Emboldened by this brilliant coup^ Sir George reminded YaJeria*" 
of his patience and devotion, and asked her to accept him as her 
second husband. 

” I don’t expect you to marry me just yet,” he said. ” It’s only 
six months since the general died — and I know women are sticklers 
for etiquette in thevse matters, though they are leaving off widows’ 
caps, and a good deal of luimbug. But 1 should like to have your 
wmrd for the future. 1 don’t want another fellow to cut in and 
win the cup after I’ve made all the running.” 

Lady Valeria looked at him in a leisurely way with that con- 
temptuous smile of heis, a smile that had crushed so many a gallant 
admirer. 

”1 thought we understood each other too well for this kind of 
thing to happen,” she ^aid, with perfect good temper and placidity. 

” We have been getting on remarkably well together— and 1 have 
even taught myself to forget your impertinence that night at Fox 
Hill. As to marriage, you may be almost sure ot one" thing, and 
quite sure ot another — first, that 1 shall never marry at all; second- 
ly, that 1 shall never marry you.” 

Sir George bowed, and said not another word. The partnership 
on the turf and at baccarat w^as toc^ profitable to be imperiled. But 
he weant the alliance to become closer and more binding, before he 
and Lady Valeria had done with each other. 

And now in this lovely July weather, when the river and the 
woods were at their fairest, Sir'George Mildmay felt himself several 
furlongs nearer the winning-posf than he had been at Monaco. Lady 
Valeria had become a more sensitive creaflfire of lale. The strings 
of the lyre were played upon mor(#ferfsily. In other words, Valeria 
had taken to chloral. Sir Georgy was on excellent terms with her 
maid, and had received information of a character which he him- 
self called “ the straight tip ^ from that astute damsel. Lady Vale- 
ria bad her good days and h^f^ad days; and on the bad days she 


304 


wyllard's weird. 


was sunk in an abyss of despair, from which not even somo great 
success in lier lacins speculations could rouse her. It was in one of 
these fits of desoondeucy that Sir George Mildmay made his second 
proposal ot marriage. But this time he did not sue as her slave, nor 
did he adopt the calm and dehonnaire tone of a business man advo- 
cating an advantageous alliance. He approached her with a brutal 
energy, a coarse plainness ol speech, which shocked the shattered 
nerves, and frightened her into submission. 

He told her the scandals that were rite about her-— told her how, 
if she did not rehabilitate her character by becoming his wife, she 
w'ould find herself cut by society as his mistress — laughed at her 
halt-indignant, halt-hysterical protest— told her that the w'orld was 
rriuch too wicked to believe in any innocent alliance between a 
beautiful woman and a man of forty, whose past life had not been 
stainless; talked to her as no man had ever dared to talk to her until 
that hour — talked till she sat trembling before him, vanquished, 
subjugated by the strangeness ot sheer brutality, she who a year- 
ago had-been sheltered and defended from slander and insult by the 
protecting love ot a noble heart. 

She sat cowering before him. Was the world so vile as'to sus- 
pect her — and of caring for this man, whom she loathed? She cov- 
ered her face with her hands and sobbed aloud, 

“ There is no one upon earth w^ho would stir a foot to protect me 
against their vile slanders; not one ot my owm kin who would stand 
up for me,'' she sobbed. 

‘ How could you expect it," asked Sir George, " when you liave 
kept all your people at arm’s length? You may lay long odds not 
one of thatloi will take your part. 1 would give some of your tra- 
ducers a sound horsewhipping fo-morrow, but that would do you 
more harm than good, unless you mean to marry me." 

" Horsewdiip them, and 1 will marry jmu," cried Valeria, rising 
and rushing from the room, tremulous with rage. 

Upon this hint Sir George promptly acted. He took an early 
opportunity of hading on a harmless youth to say something un- 
civil of Lady Valeria, and thereupon chastised him in his tlaunels 
before a select audience. The scape-goat wuilhed under the strong 
gut riding- W'hip, could not understand why he was so castigated, 
vowed vengeance, and sent a triend to Sir George that evening, pro- 
posing an early meeting on the sands near Ostrand; at which mes- 
sage Sir George openly laughed. 

‘ When boys are rude they must be punished," he said, “ but I 
don't shoot boys. Tell your young friend 1 am sorry I lost my tem- 
per; and that it he will wTitc a nice little letter, apologizinir to my 
future wife for his rashness of speecn, 1 shiill consider we are quits." 

It was known the next day along both banks of the liver that 
Lady Vah^ia was to marry Sir George Mildmay immediately on the 
expii’}^ of her mourning. The “ Dail}^ Telegraph " possessed itself of 
the fact before the “ Morning Post," and it was recorded in all the 
society papers of the following w^eek. Bothwell Grahame read of 
it a week later in the " United Service Gazette," read and was 
thankful; for now this restless spirit, which had wrought him so 
much evil, would be exorcised and bound forever in the thrall of 
matrimony. 


WYLLAllD'S WEIRD. 305 

1 am sorry she is to marry a scoundrel/’ he said to himself; 
“ otherwise my feeling would be unalloyed gladness.” 

And now Both well dared to hope that the wandering bird Hilda 
might be lured home to her nest— now that doubting heart might 
have failh once more. 

It he could but write to her, tell her of Valeria’s engagement, ask 
her it he had not proved himself faithful, if she could not trust him 
hencetorward with perfect trustfulness! She had believea in him 
when his tellow-men pointed at him as a suspected murderer; she 
had fled from him because an audacious woman claimed him for her 
lover. Strange inconsistency of a woman’s heart, so strong and 
j yet so weak I 

Heathcote was in Italy, and Heathcote was the only channel ot 
I eominunication between Bothwell and his lost love. He saddled 

' Glencoe and rode over to the Spaniards, where he hoped to hear ot 

Healhcote’s speedy return; but the traulein w^as quite in the dark 
as to her employer’s movements. He wrote very seldom; he left 
everything in her hands. She had received a little note from Flor- 
ence nearly a fortnight ago. He had written not one word as to the 
probable time of his return. 

Bothwell talked about Hilda, and insidiously questioned the frilu- 
lein, who might perchance know the girl’s whereabouts. But Miss 
Meyerstein was quite as dark upon the subject as Greek society in 
general w^as about the adventures of Ariadne. All Miss Meyerstein 
could tell Botlnvell w^as that Hilda had Glossop with her, which 
preference of Glossop the mild friiulein evidently regarded as 
something in the wa}^ ot a slight to herself. 

“ If Glossop can be trusted to know where Hilda is, I think 1 
might have been trusted,” she said. 

” I wonder a frivolous person like Glossop has not told the secret 
to half Bodmin before now,” said Bothwell. 

He wrote to Hilda that night, inclosing his letter to Heathcote at 
Florence. It seemed a w^earily roundabout way of reaching Hilda, 
who might be in Scotland or in Scandinavia for all he knew; but it 
was his only way, and it was just possible that she might be with 
her brother, and receive his letter sooner than he dared hope. He 
WToie a few lines to Heathcote with the inclosure, telling him 
about Lady Valeria’s engagement. ” 1 suppose when they two are 
married our bans may & put up in Bodmin Church,” he wrote; 
” unless Hi^ has any objection to me.” 

He counted the da3^s, the hours almost, while he waited for a re- 
ply to his letter. Be followed the letter in its journey, now over 
sea, and then over ladd — halted with it at Calais, w'ent southward 
with it, skirted the Mediterranean, pierced the Alps, and then it 
was all darkness. A’Vho could tell where the letter might have to 
go before it reached Florence? 

“ She may be hiding herself somewhere in Engl nd, and that 
wretched letter may have to travel all the way back gain,” he told 
himself ruefully. 

He waited, and waited, and waited; bearing himr ;lt with a brave 
front before his pupils all the while, teaching them botanizing with 
them, boating, riding, shooting with them, and never once losing- 
temper with them on account of his own trouble. But he was 


WYLLAED's WEIED. 


306 


suffering an agony of impatience snd suspense all the same, and one 
of the more thoughtful ot his lads saw that he was paler than usual, 
and worn and haggard. 

“ You mustn’t work with us if you are ill, Mr. Grahaine,” said 
the boy; wc’ll get on with our work by ourselves for a bit.” 

‘‘No, my dear boy, I’m not ill; I have not been sleeping very 
Tvell lately — that’s all. ‘ Sleep that knits up the raveled sleave of 
care.’ ” 

‘‘ Y'es, we can’t get on without that beggar,” answered the boy. 
” I know what it is to be awake all night with the toothache. I’ve 
often wondered that the nights should be so jolly short w^hen one’s 
asleep, and so jolly long when one’s awake.” 

At breakfast a few days later one of the lads, the son of a brother 
officer of Bothweil’s, looked up fropi the ‘‘Evening Standard” 
with an exclamation of surprise. 

” Here’s the widow of one of your old friends gone and got mar- 
ried, Mr. Grahame,” he said. ” ‘At Galbraith Church, N. B., Sir 
George Mildmay, Bart., of the Hop Poles, Maidstone, to Lady Yaleiia 
Hai borough, of Galbraith Castle, Perthshire, and Fox Hill, Plym- 
outh.’ You saved the old general’s life up at the hills, didn’t you?” 
asked the boy. “I’ve heard my father talk about it.” 

‘‘It wasn’t worth talking about. Hector,” answered Bothwell. 
‘‘ The general was a good friend to me, and 1 honor his memory.” 

‘‘ Moi-e than Lady Valeria does, or she wouldn’t marry such a 
cad as Mildmay. I’ve heard my father say he is a cad.” 

‘‘ It is safer not to repeat opinions of that kind,” said Bothwell. 

He tried to play the school-master while his heart was beating 
furiously for very joy. She was married, that viper who, had so 
w'ell nigh spoiled his life, she was married to a scoundrel who 
would make her life miserable, and he, Bothwell, was his own man 
again. Hilda could have no further justification for distrust. He 
had held himself aloof from the siren, he had demonstrated b}" his 
conduct that he had no hankering after her or her fortune; and now^ 
that she "was safely disposed of in second wedlcck, Hilda could have 
no excuse for delaying his happiness. 

All things had gone w^ell with him, except this one thing. He 
had built and furnished his house,, and laid out his garden; people 
were full ot praises for his taste and cleverness. He has been lucky 
with his pupils, and he liked his work. He was able to save money, 
and before the year was out he had laid aside the ti^ hundred 
pounds toward the extinction of his debt to his cousiiw But Dora 
did not want the debt extinguished, and had written him an indig- 
nant letter when he offered to pay the money into her banking ac- 
count. 

‘‘ How dare you pinch and scrape in order to pay me off?” she 
wrote. ” How do I know that you are not half-starving those 
poor lads, in your desire to get out ot my debt? It is your paltry 
pride \vhicli rebels at an obligation even to 3 ^our adopted sister.” 

To atone tor the harshness of her letter she sent him an old Flor- 
entine cabinet ot ebony and ivory, a gem which glorihed his draw- 
ing-room, already enriched by her gifts; for she had sent him bronzes 
from one place, and pottery from another, aud glass from a third. 
3he had made up her mind that when the time came for Bothwell 


wtllard’s weird. 307 

to lead his young wife home, the home should be in somewise 
worthy ofllie wife. 

And now there was an end of all uncertainties about the first 
unhappy entanglement of Both well’s; and nothing but caprice need 
keep him and Hilda apart any longer. 

A fortnight had gone since he had written to Hilda, and there had 
been no sign. It was the fifth day after the announcement of Lady 
Valeria’s marriage in the London papers, and Bothwell started 
once more upon that long ride by moorland and lane, across counlrv 
from Trevenna to Bodmin, and ihence to the Spaniards. He ex- 
pected the smallest comfort at the end of his journey; only a litlh* 
talk with the fraulein, wdio might have liad a recent letter from 
Heathcote, and might be able to tell him something, were it ever so 
little. She was always friendly and compassionate, and she was 
alwa3^s ready to talk to him about Hilda, and that was much. On 
one occasion she had gone so far as to take him into Hilda’s private 
sitting-room, and let him gloat over the rows of prettily-bound books 
— Tennyson and Browning, and Dickens and Thuckeray — and the 
little tables, and manifold knickknacks,the mantej-piece border which 
those dear hands had worked. Tliere stood his own photograph, 
framed and curtained with plush, as if it were too sacred for the 
common eye. He had given her a smaller copy of the same photo- 
graph, and he hoped that she had taken that with her, that she 
looked at it sometimes, among strange faces. 

Miss Meyersteiu expatiated on Hilda’s abrupt departure, and the 
little luggage with which she had provided herself. 

“Only her dressing-bag and a small portmanteau,” said the 
fraulein. “ She left all her pretty frocks hanging in the wardiobe, 
all her laces and ribbons, and gloves and ornaments in her drawers. 
She must have had to buy everything new. And theie is hei wed- 
ding-gown, just as it came from the dress-maker’s the day after she 
left home.” 

And then, at Bothwell’s urgent, reiterated entreaty, Miss 
Meyerstein went into the adjoining room, and came back, after a 
rattling of keys, bringing with her a white object which looked like 
the sheeted dead being carried away from a plague-stricken house. 

It was only Hilda’s wedding-gown, wrapped in voluminous cov- 
erings of white linen. 

Miss Mey^stein flung off the coverings, and shook out the white 
Batin gown, Mlin of so rich a fabric that it took all manner of pearly 
and opal hues in the autumn light— a smart little frock, with a 
round skirt, and just one big puff at the back of the waist, like a 
carelessly-tied sash. 

“ Short, for dancing,” said Miss Meyerstein, as she held out the 
frock at arm’s length, dangling in the air. 

“ But she didn’t expect to dance upon her wedding-day!” ejacu- 
lated Bothwell stupidly. 

“ No, but afterward. She would go to dances, and she would 
be expected to appear as a bride.” 

“Of course,” muttered Bothwell, wondering how many dances 
— save the dances of; pixies in a moonlit glen— might be expected 
to occur within easy reach of Trevenna. 


308 


wyllard’s W ETRI). 


1 


He knelt and kissed the hem of the while satin frock, and theri 
turned away with a sigh iliat was almost a sob. 

“ Not a grain of dust has got to it/' said Miss Meyerstein. “ It 
will be ready when it is wanted.” 

“ Yes,” answered Boihwell. “ The gown will be ready when it 
is wanted; but wiio can tell who the bridegroom will be?” 

‘‘He will be nobody if he is not you,” said Miss Meyerstein. 

‘‘ That poor child positively adores you.” 

“ How do you know? It is nearly a year since 5^11 saw her.” 

” Such love as that does not wear itself out in a year.” 

To-day Bothwell felt that he wanted even such poor comfort as 
might be had from feminine tw^addle of this kind. He fell that even 
a romp with the twins would do him good. They w^ere of her 
race, and she had loved them, and they could prattle to him about 
her. 

It was a rainy afternoon late in October, a dreary day for that 
long ride over the hills. The Atlantic yonder had a look of un- 
speakable melancholy; a great gray sea into which gray earth and 
sky melted. It would be dark before Bothwell couTd get back to 
Trevenna, and the ride was not the pleasantest after nightfall : but a 
man who had ridden through Afghan passes in his time was not to 
be scared b}^ dark hills and narrow lanes. Bothwell was in a mood 
to ride somewhere, were it only in the hope of riding away from his 
own impatient thoughts. He had delayed starting till after 
luncheon, having waited to give his boys the full benefit of a long 
morning’s work. It was between five and six when he came to the 
ii’on gates of the {Spaniards, and the sun was setting behind the 
hills yonder above Penmorval, poor deserted Penmorval, where the 
pictured faces looked out upon empty floors, and where the house- 
k(ieper sighed as she went from room to room, attendino; to fires that 
warmed desolate hearths. 

The Spaniards looked a little more cheerful than when Bothwell 
had seen it last, for there were lights in many of the lower win- 
dows, and those lamp-lit casements glowed brightly acro55s the rainy 
dusk. He would be able to to gel a good cup of tea from the 
frilulein, and to put up his horse for an hour or two before he ’ 
turned homeward again. 

An empty carriage passed him in the drive, and turned toward an 
opening in the shrubbery that led to the stable-jwd. There were 
visitors at the Spaniards upon that wet evening! Bothv^l wondered 
who the guest, or guests, could be, in the absence of master. 

Or was it tlie master himself who had come back? His heart 
beat faster at the thouiiht. He dismounted and rang the bell. The 
door was opened directly. Tiiere were a couple of servants in the 
hall and some luggage. Yes, the master of the house had returned. 

” Take my horse to the stables, like a good fellow,” said Both- 
well to the man who had opened the door. ” Y^our master has come 
home, 1 see.” 

“Yes, sir, ten minutes ago.” 

Bothwell waited to ask no further questions, did not wait to be 
announced even, but walked straight to the library, Heathcote’s 
usual sitting-room, opened the door, and went in. 

There was no lamp. The room was lighted only by the fire-glow, ^ 


wyllakd’s weirp. 


309 


which gleamed on book-shelves and old oak paneling, and on the 
massive timbers of the ceiling. There was a tea-table in front of 
the wide old fireplace— one of tliose vagabond tea-tables which can 
make themselves at home an}^ where — and the tea was being poured 
oat by a girl who wore a neat little black velvet toque and dark 
cloth jacket, a girl who looked as if she had just come off a 
journe}^ while Heathcote reposed in his arm-chair on the other side 
of the hearth. 

No one but Hilda could have been so much at her ease in that 
room, which was in some wise a sacred chamber, especially reserved 
for the master of the house. No one but Hilda had such pretty 
hair, or such a graceful bend of the head. The girl in the velvet 
toque was sitting with her back to Bothwell; but he had not a 
moment’s doubt as to her identity. 

He went over to the hearth, gave his hand to Heathcote silently, 
and then seated himself by Hilda’s side, she looking up at him 
dumbly the while, half in fear. 

“ What have you to say to me, Hilda, after having used me so 
ill?” he asked, taking her hand in his. 

” Only that it was- for your own sake I went away on the eve of 
our marriage,” she answered seriously. I did not want to stand 
between you and happiness.” 

“ Would it not have been wiser, and fairer to me, if you had 
taken my views upon the matter before you ran away?” 

” You would have been too generous to tell me the truth, you 
'would have sacrificed yourself to your sense of honor. How could 
1 tell you did not love Lady Valeria better than me?” 

“If you had read ‘Tom Jones’ you would have had a very 
easy way of solving that question. You would have had only to 
look in "the glass, and there you would have seen, as Sophia West- 
ern saw, the reason for a lover’s devotion. Y ou would have seen 
purity and innocence, and fresh young beauty; and you would have 
known that your lover could not falter in his truth to you.” 

“ I don’t think Tom’s conduct was altogether blameless, in spite 
of the looking-glass, eh, Bothwell?” said Heathcote, laughing at 
him. It is so hard to have to make love before a thiid person. 
“ You have to thank me for bringing home your sweetheart. I 
read the advertisement of Lady Valeria’s marriage at Genoa three 
days ago, as 1 was on my way home; so 1 stopped in Paris, and 
brought this young lady away from her musical studies at an hour’s 
notice. 1 suppose she was getting tired of the Conservatoire, for 
she seemed uncommonly glad to come.” 

“ And you were in Paris?” cried Bothwell. “ So nearl If 1 had 
only known!” 

“ There would have been nothing gained by following her,” said 
Heathcote. “ 1 never met with a more resolute young woman than 
this sister of min^. When she was determined to have you, there 
was not the least use in opposing her, and when she had made up 
her mind not to have you, she was just as inflexible. But now that 
Lady Valeria has taken to herself a second husband and that you 
seem to bear the blow pretty cheerfully, perhaps Hilda may be in- 
clined to change her mind tor the second time.” 

“ Her wedding-gown is hanging in her wardrobe ready for her,” 


310 


wyllard’s weird. 


said Botliwell, drawing a liltle closer to liis truant sweetheart, In 
the sheltering dusk, that delicious hour for true and loving hearts, 
blindman’s holiday, betwixt dog and wolf. 

“ How did you know that?” asked Heathcote. 

“ The fritulein told me. She has been taking care of your wed- 
ding-gown, Hilda. She knew that it would be wanted. You had 
better wear it as soon as possible, dearest. It is a year old already; 
and it is going more and* more out of fashion every da 3 \” 

“ She shall wear it before we are a month older,” said Heathcote. 
”1 have had too much trouble about this marriage already; and 
I’ll stand no more shilly-shall 3 dng. We’ll put up the bans next 
Suuda 3 % and in l^ss than a month from to-day you two foolish 
people shall be one.” 

Ed wuird Heathcote kept his word, and the smart white satin frock 
was worn one bright morning in November, worn by the prettiest 
bride that had been seen in Bodmin Church for many a year, the 
townspeople said— those townspeople who had now only praises 
and friendliest greetings for Botliwell Grahame, albeit a 3 "ear ago be 
had seemed to them as a possible murderer. ' 

A telegram had informed Dora Wyllard of the wedding-day, so 
soon as ever the date had been fixed, but she had not responded, as 
Hilda and her brother had hoped she would respond, to the invi- 
tation to be present at the wedding. She could not bear to see the 
Cornish hills yet awhile, she told Hilda, in her letter of congratula- 
tion. Years must pass, in all probability, before she could endure 
to look upon that familiar landscape again, or to see that roof-tree 
which had sheltered her when she was Julian W 3 dlard’s happy wife. 

“ 1 am rejoiced to know that you and Botliwell have come lo a 
safe haven at last,” she wrote. “1 shall alwa 3 ^s be interested in 
bearing of your welfare, cheered and comforted by the thouglit of 
your bright home. 1 can not blame you for having made Botliwell 
wait for his happiness, Hilda; for 1 feel that you have acted wisely 
in making sure of his free choice. There can now be no after- 
thought, no lurking suspicion lo come between you and your w^edded 
love. 

” For my own part I am at peace here, aud4bat is much. 1 read 
a great deal, paint a little every day; and my picture, however bad 
it may be, is a kind of companion to me, a thing that seems to live 
as it growls under my band. My models interest me, and through 
them 1 have become auquainted with several humble households in 
Florence, and find a great deal lo interest me in this warm hearted.* 
hot-headed race. Best of all, 1 am away from old scenes, old 
associations; and sometimes, sitting dreaming in my sunny balcony, 
with the blu^. waters of the Arno gliding past under my feet, 1 
almost believe that 1 am some new creature without a history, and 
not that Dora Wyllard who was once mistress of Penniorval. 

“ 1 wish you and Botliwell would take your honeynicon holiday 
in the South, and spend a week or two here with me. There is 
plenty of accommodation for you in these grand old apartments of 
mine— a first-floor of a dozen rooms, all large and lofty. My old 
servants keep everything in exquisite order, and are devoted in their 
attention to me. 

” It was a pleasure to me to see your brother when he was stay- 


311 


wyllaed’s weied. 

ing in Florence. Tell him that 1 left Vallombrosa only a week 
affo, and was very sorry to come away trom wood and mountain 
even then.” 

Hilda and her husband accepted this friendly invitation, and spent 
halt their honeymoon on the road to Florence, and the other half 
in that picturesque city. l’he.y touna Dora the shadow of her 
former self. She had a gentle a’if of resignation, a pensive placidity 
wliich was inexpressibly touching. She nev^er mentioned her dead 
husband. She was full of thoughtfulness for others, and had made 
herself the adored benefactress of a little colony of poor Florentines. 
She hrd furnished her rooms and established herself in a manner 
which indicated the intention to make a permanent home in the 
city; and here Both well and his wife left her, with deep regret. 

“Will you never come back to Cornwall, Dora?” Hilda asked, 
piteously, in the last farewell moments at the railway-station. 

“ Never is a long word, dearest. 1 suppose 1 shall see the old 
places again some day; but 1 must be a good deal older than 1 am 
now — a good deal turther away from my old sorrows.” 

Dora spoke without reckoning upon that Providence which shapes 
our ends in spite of us; and happily for the cause ol true love. 
Providence found a way of bringing Dora Wjdiard back to Corn- 
wall much sooner than she had intended to return. 

A little more than a year after Bothwell and his wife left Flor- 
ence, the happy home of Trevenna was darkened by the shadow of 
an awful fear. A son had been born to Bothwell Grahame; and 
before the boy was a week old the young mother was in imminent 
danger of death. Edward Heatlicote was in Italy, spending hi? 
axUurnn holiday, going over much of the same ground that he had 
visited before, and loitering longer and later'than the previous year. 
A telegram from Bothwell told him of his sister's peril; and an- 
other telegram reached Mrs. Wyllard from the same source. 
Moved by the same impulse, Dora and Heatlicote met at the station, 
each on the same errand, bent on starting by the first train for Paris. 
They traveled together in sad and silent companionship, each op- 
pressed by the tear of a great calamity. 

Heatlicote had telegraphed before he started, asking for a telegram 
to meet him at the Paris station, and here tlie message brought a ray 
of comfort. 

” A little better. The doctors are more hopeful.” 

Anxious (lays and nights followed Dora’s an ival at Trevenna. Poor 
Bothwell suffered a suiipressed agony of grief, which seemed to 
have aged him at least ten yeais by the time the crisis was past, and 
the young mother was able to smile upon her first-born. Happily 
these markings of care are soon erased from youthful faces; and 
before Christmas Bothwell was himself again, and ready to receive 
a new batch of pupils, the old lot having been disposed ot tri- 
umphantly in the summer before his son’s birth. 

Dora stayed in Cornwall during that winter of ’83 and ’84, and 
she is in Cornwall still, but not at Penmorval. Ske has established 
herself at her birth-place, Tregony Manor, near the Land’.^ End: 
and her old friends and neighbors flock arourjd her, the peoplj@’who 
knew her mother, the friends ot her child} 4 b days^, of her happy' 


312 


WYLLAKD^S WEIRD. 


girlhood. They bring back sweet memories of the old time, and 
help to wean her from her gloomy thoughts. 

One of her old companions, a spinster of thirty summers, is very 
often with her in the familiar home. They seem almost like the 
girl-friends of the past, painting together, playing, singing, work- 
ing. All the old occupations have been resumed, as if the ten years 
intervening had hardly made any break in the two lives. 

“ Sometimes I fanc}^ it is all a dream, and that you have never 
been away from Tregon}^'’ says Miss Beauchamp, one morning 
when they are sitting at work. “If we had but your dear good 
mother over there in her favorite chair by the fireplace, 1 should 
quite believ^e the last ten years to be only a dream. But she is 
gone, dear soul, and that makes asad difference. Do you know, yes- 
terday, when 1 looked out of the window and saw you and Mr. 
Heathcote walking on the terrace, I rubbed mj' eyes to make sure 
that 1 was awake. You both looked exactly as you used to look 
ten years ago, when you were engaged.” 

Dora went on with her work in placid silence. 

“Dora, he is so good, so loyal, so devoted to you,” cried Miss 
Beauchamp, in her atfectionate impulsive way. “ You can not be 
so cruel as to spoil his life forever. Surely you will reward him 
some day.” 

“ Some day,” sang Dora softly, with her face bent low over her 
# work: and her story ends thus with the refrain of a popular ballad. 


THE END. 


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370 Ralph Wilton’s Weird 10 

400 Which Shall it Be? 20 

582 Maid, Wife, or Widow 10 

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816 White Wings: A Yachting -Romance 10 

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1032 That Beautiful Wretch 10 

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1264 Mr. Pisistratus Brown, M.P., in the Highlands 10 

1429 An Adventure in Thule. A Story for Young People 10 

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215 Birds of Prey 20 

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550 Fenton’s Quest 20 

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837 Just as I Am; or, A Living Lie 30 

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1265 Mount Royal .• 20 

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552 Love at Saratoga 20 

672 Eve, The Factory Girl 20 

716 Black Bell 20 

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1829 Only Mattie Garland 20 

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721 Basil 20 

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